THE  GREAT  FRENCH  WRITERS 


MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE 


Cije  <Sitat  JFitnti)  Mlritcrs 


Madame  de  Sevigne 

GASTON     BOISSIER 

OK     THE     FRENCH     ACADEMY 
TRANS  LA  TED   BY 

MELVILLE     B.    ANDERSON 

TRANSLATOR    OF    HUGo's    "  SH AKKSPF.ARE  " 


e-'o.- 


CHICAGO 
A.   C.   McCLURG    AND    COMPANY 

1888 


Copyright 
By  a.  C.  McClurg  and  Company 

A.  D.    1888 


a^ 


^ 


w 


^^ 


DC 


CONTENTS. 


"^  Page 

^     Introduction    to   the    Series,    by   the    French 
\\f>^  Editor g 

Author's  Introduction,  Biographical  Details    .      15 


|3art  I. 

THE   WOMAN. 

I.     Portrait  of  Madame  de  Se'vigne    18. 

II.     Girlhood,  22.  —  Marriage,  24.  —  Widowhood,  26. 

in.  Her  tutor  Manage,  32.  —  Her  suitors,  Bussy  and 
Fouquct,  36.  — An  ideal  friend,  warm-hearted,  kind, 
loyal,  37. 

IV.  Her  son  Charles,  43,  — Her  daughter,  Madame  de 
Grignan,  45. 

V.     Her  cousin,  Count  de  Bussy-Rabutin,  54. 

VI.  Madame  de  Lafayette  and  the  Duke  de  La  Rochefou- 
cauld, 66.  —  Her  relatives,  Monsieur  and  Madame 
de  Coulanges,  71. 


211C47 


vi  Contents. 

Part  II. 

THE   WRITER. 

I.  Letter-writing  fashionable  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
8l.  —  Voiture,  82.  —  Contemporary  admiration  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters,  84.  —  Did  she  write 
with  an  oblique  glance  at  the  public  ?  85. 
II.  A  literary  expert  from  the  start,  89.  —  Her  teachers, 
Chapelain  and  Menage,  91.  —  Good  effects  of  this 
grammatical  and  literary  training,  97.  —  Her  read- 
ing, 100.  —  How  she  educated  her  grandchildren, 
102. 
HI.  The  precietises,  105.  —  A  period  of  transition  in  litera- 
ture and  diction,  107.  —  The  education  obtained  in 
social  intercourse,  109. 

IV.  The  birth  of  her  talent,  114.  —  Her  literary  natural- 
ness and  simplicity,  119.  —  Ingenuity  and  wit,  120. — 
Imagination  her  peculiar  gift,  123.  —  Susceptibility 
to  tlie  influence  of  more  positive  natures,  127. — 
Freedom  and  originality  of  expression,  131.  —  Why 
did  she  not  write  a  connected  work  ?  133. 

fart  III. 

THE   WORK. 

Value  of  Madame  de  S6vign6's  Letters  as  His- 
torical Documents 135 

I.  The  light  they  throw  upon  the  domestic  life  of  the 
time,  136.  —  Outward  formality  among  relatives,  137 
—  Madame  de  Sevigne's  maternal  love  exceptional, 
141.  —  Fashionable  neglect  of  offspring,  especially 
of  girls,  142. 


Contents.  vii 

II.  Topics  of  the  letters:  health,  150.  —  A  fashionable 
watering-place,  153.  —  Diseases,  doctors,  and  drugs, 
156. 

III.  Aristocratic  mendicancy  and  royal  bounty,  159. —  Ma- 

dame de  Sdvigne's  wealth,  162.  —  The  dear,  good 
Abbe  de  Coujanges,  her  faithful  steward,  163. — 
Ilcr  thrift  and  practical  shrewdness,  166.  —  Prodigal 
living  at  Grignan  Castle,  169. 

IV.  Madame  de  Sevigne  practises  economy  on  her  estate, 

176.  —  Description  of  Les  Rochers  and  of  life  there, 
183.  —  Her  descriptions  of  Nature,  189. 

V.  Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters  supplement  and  correct 
the  formal  histories,  192.  —  Differences  between  her 
Time  arid  6urs,  195.  —  Reverence  for  the  king,  196. 
—  Religious  faith  and  scepticism  of  that  time,  198.  — 
Madame  de  Sevigne's  unorthodox  piety,  201. —  Her 
enviable  death,  204. 


S5 


INTRODUCTION   TO   THE   SERIES. 

By  the   FRENCH   EDITOR. 


OUR  closing  century  has  had  from  the  outset,  and 
will  bequeath  to  its  successor,  a  deep-seated 
inclination  for  historical  studies.  It  has  pursued  them 
with  a  zest,  a  method,  and  a  success,  that  the  pre- 
ceding ages  had  not  known.  The  history  of  the  globe 
and  of  its  inhabitants  has  been  entirely  rewritten  ;  the 
pick  of  the  archeologist  has  brought  to  light  the  bones 
of  the  heroes  of  Mycenae  and  the  very  features  of 
Sesostris.  By  the  interpretation  of  ruins  and  the  de- 
cipherment of  hieroglyphics  men  have  been  enabled 
to  reconstruct  the  existence  of  the  illustrious  dead, 
and  even  in  some  cases  to  enter  into  their  thoughts. 
With  a  passion  still  more  intense  because  seasoned 
with  love,  our  century  has  devoted  itself  to  the  task 
of  reviving  the  great  authors  of  all  literatures,  the  men 
who  hold  in  trust  the  genius  of  nations  and  are  tlie 
spokesmen  of  races.  In  France  there  has  been  no 
lack  of  scholars  to  occupy  themselves  with  this  task ; 
they  have  edited  the  works  and  unravelled  the  biog- 
%'raphies  of  those  illustrious  men  whom  we  cherish 
as  ancestors,  and  who  have  contributed,  even  more 


lo  Introduction  to  the  Series. 

than  princes  and  great  captains,  to  the  formation  of 
modern  France,  not  to  say  of  the  modern  world. 

For  it  is  one  of  our  glories  that  the  work  of  France 
has  been  accomplished  less  by  dint  of  arms  than  by 
force  of  thought.  The  influence  of  our  country  upon 
the  world  has  always  been  independent  of  its  military 
triumphs ;  this  influence  has  been  recognized  as  pre- 
ponderant in  the  most  mournful  hours  of  the  nation's 
history.  For  this  reason  the  great  thinkers  of  our 
literature  interest  not  merely  their  direct  descendants, 
but  also  a  numerous  European  posterity  scattered 
beyond  the  frontiers. 

Originators  at  first,  then  popularizers,  the  French 
were  the  earUest,  in  the  midst  of  the  turbulence  that 
marked  the  beginning  of  the  Middle  Ages,  to  recom- 
mence a  literature  ;  the  first  cradle-songs  of  modern 
society  were  French  songs.  Like  Gothic  art  and 
like  the  foundation  of  universities,  the  literature  of  the 
Middle  Ages  begins  in  our  country,  thence  spreading 
throughout  Europe  :  such  is  the  initiation. 

But  this  literature  failed  to  recognize  the  impor- 
tance of  form,  of  restraint,  of  measure ;  it  was  too 
spontaneous,  not  sufficiently  reflective,  too  indifferent 
to  questions  of  art.  In  the  time  of  Louis  XIV. 
France  brought  literary  form  into  esteem  ;  this  was 
the  epoch  of  the  popularization  of  literary  principles, 
in  anticipation  of  the  age  of  philosophical  renewal, 
whose  European  harbingers  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury were  to  be  Voltaire  and  Rousseau,  and  in  an- 
ticipation of  the  eclectic  and  scientific  period  in  which 
we  live.     Had  this  task  not  been  accomplished  as  it 


Introduction  to  the  Series.  1 1 

was,  the  whole  course  of  modern  literature  would 
have  been  different.  Ariosto,  Tasso,  Camoens, 
Shakspeare,  Spenser,  all  the  foreign  writers  com- 
bined, both  those  of  the  Renaissance  and  those  who 
followed,  would  not  have  sufficed  to  bring  about  this 
reform ;  and  our  age  would  perhaps  have  missed 
those  impassioned  poets  who  were  likewise  perfect 
artists,  freer  than  their  precursors  and  purer  in  form 
than  Boileau  himself  had  dreamed,  —  such  poets  as 
Ch^nier,  Keats,  Goethe,  Lamartine,  Leopardi. 

In  our  own  time,  accordingly,  many  works  whose 
publication  is  abundantly  justified  by  all  these  rea- 
sons have  been  devoted  to  the  great  writers  of 
France.  But  have  these  powerful  and  charming 
spirits  their  due  place  in  the  present  literature  of  the 
world?  In  no  wise,  —  not  even  in  France;  and  for 
manifold  reasons. 

In  the  first  place,  having  made  in  the  last  century 
the  belated  discovery  of  the  literatures  of  the  North, 
ashamed  of  our  ignorance,  we  directed  to  foreign 
objects  an  enthusiasm  which,  though  not  unprofitable, 
was  perhaps  excessive,  and  which  was  at  all  events 
very  prejudicial  to  the  study  of  our  national  ances- 
tors. Furthermore,  it  has  not  been  possible,  hitherto, 
to  associate  these  ancestors  with  our  life  as  we  should 
have  liked  to  do,  and  to  mingle  them  with  the  cur- 
rent of  our  daily  thoughts  ;  at  least,  it  has  not  been 
easy  to  do  this,  and  precisely  because  of  the  nature 
of  the  labor  that  has  been  devoted  to  them.  For 
where,  in  fact,  are  these  dead  men  made  to  live 
again  ?     Either  in  their  works,  or  in  treatises  on  liter- 


12  Introduction  to  the  Series. 

ary  history.  This  is  indeed  much  ;  the  noble,  schol- 
arly editions  and  the  artistically  grouped  treatises 
have,  in  our  time,  made  such  a  communion  of  souls 
less  difificult  than  formerly.  But  this  is  not  enough  : 
we  are  now  accustomed  to  have  everything  made 
easy;  grammars  and  sciences  have  been  clarified,  just 
as  travelling  has  been  facilitated ;  the  impossible  of 
yesterday  has  become  the  habitual  of  to-day.  This 
is  why  the  old  treatises  of  literature  often  repel  us,  and 
why  complete  editions  do  not  attract ;  they  are  better 
suited  to  those  hours  of  study  which  are  so  rarely 
rescued  from  the  exigencies  of  business  or  profession, 
than  to  the  hours  of  relaxation  which  are  more  fre- 
quent. Thus  it  happens  that  the  book  which  at  these 
moments  opens  of  itself  is  usually  the  latest  novel ; 
while  the  works  of  the  great  men,  complete  and  in- 
tact, motionless  as  family  portraits,  venerated  but 
rarely  contemplated,  remain  in  orderly  array  on  the 
upper  shelves  of  our  libraries. 

We  love  them  and  we  neglect  them.  These  great 
men  seem  too  remote,  too  different,  too  learned,  too 
inaccessible.  The  mind  is  oppressed  by  the  thought 
of  the  edition  in  many  volumes,  of  the  notes  that  dis- 
tract the  attention,  of  all  that  formidable  scientific  ap- 
paratus, —  perhaps  also  by  the  vague  recollection  of 
the  college,  of  the  study  of  the  classics,  of  the  juvenile 
task  :  already  the  vacant  hour  has  taken  flight ;  and 
thus  we  fall  into  the  way  of  letting  our  elder  authors 
stand  apart,  majestic  and  silent,  as  personages  whose 
intimacy  we  do  not  seek. 

The  aim  of  the  present  collection  is  to  bring  back 


Introduction  to  the  Series.  13 

to  the  fireside  those  great  men  who  have  been  rele- 
gated to  rarely-visited  temples,  and  to  re-establish 
between  ancestors  and  descendants  that  union  of 
thought  and  word  which  can  alone  assure,  in  despite 
of  the  changes  that  time  brings,  the  preservation  of 
our  national  genius  in  its  purity.  The  volumes  in 
course  of  publication  will  contain  precise  information 
touching  the  life,  the  work,  and  the  influence  of  each 
of  the  writers  who  have  conquered  a  place  in  uni- 
versal literature,  or  who  represent  an  original  side  of 
the  French  mind.  The  books  will  be  small,  and  of 
moderate  price  ;  thus  they  will  be  within  the  reach 
of  all.  As  to  size,  paper,  and  print,  they  will  be  like 
the  specimen  in  the  reader's  hands.  Upon  doubtful 
points  they  will  embody  the  results  of  the  latest  in- 
vestigation, and  may  thus  be  of  service  even  to  those 
who  know.  They  will  contain  no  notes,^  the  name  of 
the  author  being  a  sufficient  guaranty  for  each  work, 
as  the  co-operation  of  the  most  distinguished  con- 
temporaries is  assured. 

In  brief,  to  recall  the  part  played  by  our  great 
writers,  —  which,  thanks  to  the  researches  of  erudition, 
is  to-day  better  known  than  ever,  —  to  strengthen 
their  influence  over  the  present  age,  to  tighten  the 
cords  and  reawaken  the  affection  that  bind  us  to  our 
literary  past ;  by  the  contemplation  of  this  past  to  in- 
spire faith  in  the  future,  and  to  silence,  if  possible, 
the  bodeful  voices  of  the  faint-hearted,  —  such  is  our 
principal  aim.  We  believe  also  that  this  collection 
will  have  several  other  advantages.  It  is  well  for 
1  Save  those  of  the  translator. 


14  Introduction  to  the  Sei^ies. 

every  generation  to  take  an  inventory  of  the  wealth 
it  has  found  in  its  ancestral  heritage  ;  it  thus  learns  to 
make  a  better  use  of  this  wealth.  Moreover,  a  gen- 
eration is  itself  epitomized,  unveiled,  and  revealed  in 
its  own  judgme  ts.  If  the  reception  accorded  to 
this  series  shall  permit  it  to  be  brought  to  a  successful 
issue,  it  will  therefore  be  useful  for  the  knowledge  of 
the  present  as  well  as  for  the  reconstruction  of  the 
past. 

J.  J.  JUSSERAND. 
April  lo,  1887. 


MADAME    DE    SEVIGNE. 


INTRODUCTION. 

IT  may  seem  difficult  at  this  date  to  speak  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne ;  so  much  has  been 
written  about  her  that  apparently  little  more 
remains  to  be  said.  As  hers  was  a  nature 
notably  sincere  and  open,  the  writers  who 
have  dealt  with  her  have  generally  made  an 
accurate  portrait,  and  have  experienced  no 
great  difficulty  in  depicting  her  as  she  was.  It 
follows  that  one  who  wished  at  all  hazards  to 
be  original,  would  risk  depicting  her  as  she 
was  not ;  he  would  perhaps  neglect  the  most 
obvious  qualities,  on  the  pretext  that  the  world 
is  familiar  with  them;  he  would  attribute  un- 
due importance  to  others;  and  in  order  to 
exhibit  her  in  a  new  aspect,  he  would  draw 
a  fancy  picture. 

Not  wishing  to  expose  myself  to  this  danger, 
I  shall  make  no  attempt  at  novelty.  It  shall  be 
my  anxiety  neither  to  find  unknown  estimates 
nor  to  hunt  up  citations  that  have  never  yet 


1 6  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

been  made.  After  having  read  again  Madame 
de  Sevigne's  letters,  I  shall  simply  give  the  im- 
pression they  leave  upon  my  mind,  without 
considering  whether  I  am  not  repeating  what 
others  have  said  before.  Such  is  the  only 
method  I  shall  follow  in  this  work. 

I  do  not  think  it  would  be  interesting-  to 
relate  here  anew,  in  a  connected  manner,  the 
life  of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  Others  have  done 
this  with  an  abundance  of  details  that  le  ives 
nothing  to  be  desired.  Those  who  would  like 
to  know  her  biography  thoroughly  have  only 
to  read  Walckenaer's  somewhat  diffuse  but 
agreeable  "  Memoirs,"  or,  what  will  please 
them  more,  the  tasteful  notice  that  M.  Mesnard 
prefixed  to  the  edition  of  her  works  in  "  The 
Great  Writers  of  France."  ^  Her  life,  moreover, 
contains  nothing  romantic ;  it  is  made  up  of 
the  ordinary  incidents  of  a  woman's  life,  and 
may  be  summed  up  in  a  few  words.  Born  in 
1626,  in  the  middle  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII., 
of  a  great  Burgundian  family,  an  orphan  at  the 
age  of  seven,  Marie  de  Rabutin-Chantal  mar- 
ried, in  1644,  a  Breton  gentleman,  the  Marquis 
de  Sevigne.  This  marriage  was  not  fortunate; 
Sevigne  was  killed  in  a  duel  in  165  i.  He  left 
two  children,  —  a  son  who  was  an  intelligent 
man  and  a  brave    soldier,   but  who,   tired    of 

1  Not  to  be  confounded  with  the  present  series.  —  Tr. 


Introduction.  1 7 

waiting  for  promotion  and  seized  with  home- 
sickness, retired  from  service  early  and  married 
in  Biittany;  a  daughter  who  in  1669  married 
the  'Count  dc  Grignan,  Lieutenant-Governor 
of  Provence.  She  followed  her  husband  to 
the  seat  of  his  government,  and  from  that 
time  Madame  de  Sevigne's  whole  life  consisted 
in  a^vaiting  her  daughter  or  in  going  to  visit 
her,  in  thinking  of  her,  and  in  writing  to  her. 
Thui  was  produced  the  correspondence  that 
forms  the  glory  of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  She 
died  in  1696,  duiing  one  of  those  reunions  at 
Grignan  Castle  to  which  she  so  eagerly  looked 
forward. 

These  few  dates  will  suffice  to  guide  us  in 
the  study  we  are  about  to  undertake. 

I  shall  cite  Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters 
from  the  edition  of  "The  Great  Writers  of 
France,"  correcting  and  completing  this  from 
M.  Capmas's  publication  of  her  "  Inedited 
Letters." 


PART   I. 

THE     WOMAN. 

THE  most  interesting  thing  in  Madame  de 
Sevigne's  correspondence  is  herself.  We 
must  therefore  endeavor  at  the  outset  to  know 
her  by  means  of  what  she  says,  or  of  what 
others  say  to  her.  We  possess  nearly  fifteen 
hundred  letters  that  she  wrote  or  received,  — 
more  than  enough  to  reveal  the  entire  woman. 
It  is  highly  probable  that  a  woman  who  WTOte 
so  much,  even  had  she  been  mysterious  and 
dissembling,  as  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  not, 
must  have  let  out  all  her  secrets. 


To  begin  with,  was  she  pretty?  It  is  no 
idle  curiosity  that  makes  us  ask  this  question. 
Although  we  desire  especially  to  know  the 
qualities  of  her  mind  and  of  her  heart,  it  would 
not  be  amiss  to  be  able  to  connect  them  with 
a  living  face ;  the  whole  would  be  better  un- 
derstood, and  we  should  have  the  entire  person. 


The   Woman.  1 9 

Unfortunately,  the  portraits  of  her  that  are  pre- 
served do  not  agree,  and  some  of  them  awaken 
doubts.  The  pastel  by  Nanteuil  alone  appears 
to  be  incontestably  authentic,  and  it  is  subject 
to  the  drawback  that  it  represents  the  mar- 
chioness when  she  was  no  longer  young.  It  is 
a  good  face,  broad,  animated,  smiling,  reflect- 
ing good-nature  and  intelligence;  but  it  is 
not  a  really  pretty  face.  Looking  at  it,  one 
cannot  help  being  surprised  that  she  should 
have  had  so  many  admirers.  We  shall  see 
that  during  her  married  life  and  after  she  be- 
came a  widow  there  was  a  crowd  of  would-be 
supplanters  or  successors  of  her  husband,  and 
that  among  these  numerous  wooers  were  to  be 
found  the  handsomest  gentlemen  of  the  court 
and  the  greatest  names  of  France.  Obviously 
they  would  have  been  much  less  eager  to 
please  her  had  she  been  homely.  Once  in  her 
later  life,  being  told  that  Pauline,  her  grand- 
daughter, resembled  her,  she  wrote  to  Madame 
de  Grignan:  "Was  I  ever  as  pretty  as  she? 
They  say  that  I  was  not  a  little  so."  It  must 
be  admitted  that  in  her  portraits  she  is  but 
moderately  so,  and  that,  taking  her  as  the 
painters  represent  her,  we  hardly  perceive  that 
her  face  justifies  so  many  sighs  on  the  part  of 
Conti,  Turenne,  Rohan,  Bussy,  Du  Lude  We 
should,   therefore,  be  tempted  to    accuse   the 


20  Madame  de  Sevio;ne. 


i>' 


painters  of  not  having  accurately  rendered  the 
charm  of  her  features ;  but  as  these  painters 
were  men  of  talent,  distinguished  in  their  art, 
it  is  more  probable  that  this  charm  partly- 
eluded  delineation,  and  that  the  qualities  wh:ich 
pleased  in  her  person  were  of  the  kind  that  ;he 
pencil  can  scarcely  reproduce.  Madame  de 
Lafayette,  in  the  verbal  portrait  which,  in  the 
person  of  an  unknown  woman,  she  makes  of 
her  friend,  says  to  her:  "The  brilliancy  of 
your  wit  gives  such  lustre  to  your  complexion 
and  to  your  eyes  that,  although  wit  would  seem 
to  affect  only  the  ears,  it  is  nevertheless  cer- 
tain that  yours  dazzles  the  eyes."  It  seems  to 
me  that  this  phrase  explains  the  failure  of  the 
painters  to  represent  Madame  de  Sevigne  as  she 
appeared  to  her  friends.  How  limn  this  reflec- 
tion of  the  mind  upon  the  face,  this  illumina- 
tion of  the  features  by  the  qualities  wit'  in? 
Yet  this  was  what  constituted  the  chief  attrac- 
tion of  Madame  de  Sevigne,  and  gave  charac- 
ter to  her  beauty.  If,  therefore,  we  would 
have  her  true  portrait,  vv^e  must  add  much  to 
the  one  the  painters  have  left  us.  Take,  if 
you  will,  the  pastel  of  Nanteuil,  and  begin  by 
depriving  her  of  several  years.  When  we  have 
brought  her  back  "to  the  bloom  of  her  twentieth 
year,"  of  which  Madame  de  Lafayette  speaks, 
give  her  what  no   one,  not  even    her    cousin 


The  Woman,  2 1 

Bus?y  denies  her,  —  blond  tresses,  thick  and 
flouing,  eyes  full  of  fire,  an  admirable  com- 
ple-xion  of  a  lustre  and  a  freshness  "  beheld 
on'y  in  a  sunrise  or  in  the  finest  roses  of 
spring;  "  adorn  her  especially  with  those 
charming  hues  of  intelligence  and  goodness 
thit  illuminate  her  features,  let  her  soul  be 
read  upon  her  face,  —  and  we  shall  understand 
why,  although  not  wholly  beautiful,  she  should 
have  attracted  more  attention  than  many 
women  of  irreproachable  beauty.  We  are  told 
that  her  first  look  was  almost  irresistibly  win- 
ning. "  I  seem  to  see  her  yet,"  writes  Abbe 
Arnauld  in  his  "  Memoirs,"  "  as  she  appeared 
to  me  the  first  time  it  was  my  good  fortune  to 
see  her,  sitting  in  her  open  carriage  between 
her  son  and  her  daughter,  —  all  three  realizing 
the  poet's  picture  of  Latona  between  young 
Apollo  and  little  Diana,  so  radiant  with  grace 
and  beauty  were  the  mother  and  her  children." 
A  little  later,  when  the  first  surprise  was  past, 
people  perceived  the  imperfections  of  the  face 
with  which  they  had  at  first  been  fascinated. 
It  was  noticed  "  that  the  eyes  were  too  small 
and  different  in  color,  the  eyelids  mottled,  and 
the  nose  a  little  flattened  at  the  end."  But 
these  defects  did  not  long  offend.  As  one 
was  by  this  time  closer  to  her,  one  could  hear 
her  talk,   and   this  was  another  charm  not  to 


2  2  Madame  de  Sevi^ne. 


^> 


be  resisted.  "  Those  who  Hsten  to  ycu,"  said 
Madame  de  Lafayette,  "  no  longer  perceive 
that  anything  is  wanting  to  the  regularit  '■  of 
your  features ;  they  concede  you  the  n:  ost 
consummate  beauty  in  the  world," 

II. 

Thus  we  have  made  a  first  acquaintance  with 
Madame  de  Sevigne,  but  the  impression  is  still 
very  hasty  and  confused.  We  have  barely 
caught  a  distant  and  very  indistinct  glimpse 
of  her.  If  we  desire  to  know  anything  more 
of  her  than  the  features  of  her  face,  w^e  must 
endeavor  to  follow  her  into  the  grand  society 
which  she  entered  early  and  in  which  she  passed 
her  life. 

Of  her  youth  we  know  little.  Her  cousin, 
Bussy-Rabutin,  to  whom  they  wished  to  marry 
her,  pretends  that  he  was  frightened  by  "  a 
certain  madcap  fashion  "  in  which  he  saw  her 
act,  and  that  he  thought  her  "  the  prettiest 
girl  in  the  world  to  be  the  wife  of  another." 
Although  Bussy  is  a  great  slanderer,  I  am 
somewhat  inclined  to  believe  him  when  he 
tells  us  of  the  madcap  ways  of  Mademoiselle 
de  Chantal.  She  had  lacked  the  watchful  care 
of  a  mother;  the  good  Abbe  de  Coulanges, 
her  uncle,  who  took  such  care  of  her  fortune, 


The    Woman.  23 

could  not  teach  her  certain  dehcacics  that 
a  woman  alone  can  value  aright.  She  was 
early  thrown  into  very  gay  circles  where  there 
was  little  constraint;  she  was  familiar  with 
men  and  women  engaged  in  intimacies  that 
were  a  mystery  to  no  one,  and  it  is  probable 
th.it  none  of  these  transparent  intrigues  es- 
caoed  the  keenness  of  her  observation.  Young 
as  she  was,  she  must  have  understood  what 
was  but  half  concealed ;  she  penetrated  the 
meaning  of  the  hints  she  heard.  Is  this  for  her 
sake  to  be  regretted  ?  I  cannot  tell.  It  is  a  deli- 
cate problem  in  the  education  of  girls,  to  know 
whether  it  is  best  to  tell  them  all  or  to  conceal 
all.  Every  father  is  forced  to  reflect  upon 
this,  and  we  see  equally  wise  fathers  reaching 
contrary  conclusions.  Each  method,  in  fact, 
may  produce  different  effects,  according  to  the 
disposition  to  which  it  is  applied.  There  are 
doubtless  those  to  whom  this  revelation  of  evil 
is  very  injurious  when  it  comes  too  soon :  it 
prematurely  corrupts  the  imagination  and  may 
foster  precocious  excitation.  Others,  on  the 
contrary,  are  steeled  by  such  knowledge ;  the 
spectacle  to  which  they  are  accustomed  before 
the  age  when  it  can  be  fatal,  preserves  them 
afterward  from  grievous  surprises.  The  vio- 
lence of  certain  sentiments  is  weakened  by  de- 
priving them  of  the  charm  of  mystery.     What 


24  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

is  certain  is,  that  for  Mademoiselle  de  Chantal 
this  premature  acquaintance  with  life  did  not 
involve  the  dangers  that  might  have  been 
feared.  Bussy  was  afterwards  compelled  to 
acknowledge  this. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  she  married,  as  we 
have  seen,  the  Marquis  de  Sevigne.  As  she 
was  free  in  her  actions  and  mistress  of  her  f  >r- 
tune  under  the  easy  guardianship  of  the  Abbe 
de  Coulanges,  it  is  probable  that  no  constraint 
was  exercised,  and  that  Sevigne  pleased  her. 
He  was  a  handsome,  dashing  cavalier;  he  had 
birth  and  courage,  and  critical  people  like 
Bussy  thought  him  clever.  Marie  de  Chantal, 
so  kind-hearted,  so  affectionate,  so  prone  to 
attach  herself  to  those  about  her,  had  to  make 
no  effort  in  order  to  love  him.  We  can  there- 
fore presume  that  the  beginning  of  the  wed- 
lock was  happy.  They  spent  this  time  in  their 
Chateau  des  Rochers ;  and  this  first  absence 
was  so  long  that  Bussy  and  his  friend  Lenet, 
a  clever  man  who  was  much  involved  in  the 
intrigues  of  the  Fronde,  felt  obliged  to  address 
to  the  amorous  couple,  who  would  not  leave 
their  nest,  an  agreeably  versified  entreaty  de- 
signed to  draw  them  back  into  society:  — 

"  Hail  to  you,  rural  gentry, 
Adscripts  to  the  glebe  of  Brittany, 
Fixtures  in  your  country  mansion, 
Beyond  all  rime  or  reason,"  etc. 


The   Woman.  25 

It  cannot  be  doubted  that  this  was  a  time  of 
happiness  for  the  young  wife;  but  this  happi- 
ness did  not  last  long.  Sevigne  turned  out  to 
be  the  most  fickle  of  husbands.  "  He  loved 
everywhere,"  Bussy  tells  us,  "but  he  never 
loved  any  one  so  amiable  as  his  wife."  This 
happy  phrase  may  be  applied  to  many  besides 
the  Marquis  de  Sevigne.  At  the  very  time 
when  he  was  distressing  her  by  his  faithlessness, 
he  was  ruining  her  by  his  extravagance.  It  must 
be  admitted  that  of  the  great  ladies  of  that 
time  whom  Cousin  so  lavishly  praises,  many 
sold  themselves  almost  as  frequently  as  they 
gave  themselves;  and  Sevigne  found  it  very 
easy  to  purchase  them  with  his  wife's  fortune. 
This  gave  rise,  doubtless,  to  many  painful 
scenes  between  husband  and  wife.  Like  all 
men  who  fear  and  deserve  reproaches,  the 
husband  took  the  initiative;  he  was  rough, 
grumbling,  surly,  and  somewhat  prided  him- 
self upon  resembling  the  grand  prior  Hugo 
de  Rabutin,  whom  he  called  "  my  uncle  the 
Pirate."  Madame  de  Sevigne.  from  whom  he 
did  not  take  the  trouble  to  hide  his  caprices, 
could  no  longer  respect  him ;  but  we  are  told 
that  she  still  loved  him,  and  that  when  he 
fought  a  duel  for  one  of  his  mistresses  and  was 
killed  by  his  rival,  she  could  not  refrain  from 
weeping.     These  tears  were  sincere,  whatever 


26  Madame  de  Sevzo-ne. 

Bussy  may  pretend ;  but  it  may  easily  be  be- 
lieved that,  once  the  first  emotion  past,  she 
soon  reconciled  herself  to  a  widowhood  that 
restored  her  peace  and  freedom.  She  so  thor- 
oughly forgot  this  libertine  and  spendthrift 
husband  that  in  all  her  correspondence  with 
her  children  she  never  mentioned  his  name. 

She  was  twenty-six  or  twenty-seven  years 
of  age  when,  her  first  mourning  being  over, 
she  re-entered  society.  Now  we  begin  to  get 
better  acquainted  with  her.  We  have  a  large 
number  of  letters  belonging  to  this  period,  and 
the  evidence  of  contemporaries  concerning  her 
becomes  more  definite.  This  return  of  the 
young  widow  to  the  fashionable  salons  was  a 
triumphant  one.  She  came  back  more  lovely 
than  people  had  ever  seen  her.  Her  beauty, 
as  we  have  just  now  described  it,  harmonized 
better  with  a  certain  maturity  than  with  early 
youth.  Her  self-possession  in  conversation, 
which  might  have  seemed  out  of  place  in  a 
young  girl,  was  a  great  charm  in  a  woman. 
She  was  now  free  to  give  rein  to  her  natural 
vivacity;  she  was  no  longer  bound  to  check 
the  witticism  upon  her  lips,  and  she  could 
yield  without  restraint  to  the  zest  of  conversa- 
tion where  the  interlocutors  stimulate  one  an- 
other, and  the  wit  of  each  is  enhanced  by  the 
wit  of  all.     "  When  they  get  me  to  talking," 


The  Woman.  27 

said  she,  "  I  hold  my  own  well  enough."  She 
must  indeed  have  been  peerless.  Accordingly, 
she  was  soon  surrounded  by  a  court  of  admir- 
ers. The  memoirs  of  the  time  and  Bussy's 
correspondence  make  known  to  us  some  of 
those  who  were  attentive  to  her.  They  were, 
as  I  have  said,  the  greatest  personages  of  the 
court,  —  Conti,  a  prince  of  the  blood  ;  Turenne, 
a  victorious  general;  Fouquet,  a  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer ;  the  Duke  de  Rohan  ;  the  Mar- 
quis de  Tonquedec  ;  Count  du  Lude,  who  came 
nearest  to  succeeding;  but  we  must  believe 
they  all  failed,  since  Tallemant,  who  was  slan- 
der personified,  and  Bussy-Rabutin,  who  had  a 
grudge  to  pay,  found  nothing  to  say  against 
her.  Bussy,  however,  who  did  not  wish  to 
make  a  panegyric,  strove  to  belittle  in  some 
measure  a  merit  which  he  is  compelled  to 
recognize.  "  She  is  of  a  cold  disposition,"  he 
tells  us;  "  at  least  if  we  are  to  believe  her  late 
husband,  who  was  indebted  to  this  circum- 
stance for  her  fidelity." 

This  is  certainly  one  of  the  phrases  that 
must  have  given  the  greatest  pain  to  Madame 
de  Sevignc,  in  that  malicious  portrait  which 
her  cousin  made  of  her.  A  woman  does  not 
like  to  have  it  said  that  she  is  virtuous  only  by 
temperament;  there  are  perhaps  some  who 
would    prefer    to    be    deemed    a   trifle    guilty. 


28  Madame  de  Sevicr^te. 


<i> 


This  explanation  of  Bussy  has  accordingly 
much  disturbed  Madame  de  Sevigne's  friends. 
I  confess,  however,  that  I  believe  it  would  be 
hard  to  find  a  different  one.  Let  us  bear  in 
mind  that  she  was  not  one  of  those  widows  de- 
scribed by  Bossuet,  who,  "  really  widowed  and 
desolate,  bury  themselves  in  the  tombs  of  their 
husbands."  She  lived  in  the  midst  of  a  very 
gay  world,  and  took  pleasure  in  it.  She  asso- 
ciated with  women  whom  even  people  far  from 
prudish  accused  of  being  "  rather  free  and 
easy."  She  liked  to  have  a  train  of  followers, 
and  gladly  received  the  attentions  of  all.  She 
did  not  dislike  very  free  talk;  it  is  asserted 
that  she  had  the  talent  of  entering  into  the 
spirit  of  everything  that  was  said,  and  that 
she  led  her  interlocutors  farther  than  they  had 
meant  to  go ;  "  sometimes,  also,"  it  is  added, 
•'  they  led  her  a  mad  chase."  How  happens 
it  that  all  this  turned  out  as  well  as  it  did ; 
how  explain  the  fact  that  a  handsome  woman, 
who  liked  so  well  to  play  with  danger,  did  not 
at  last  succumb  to  it?  She  herself  has  given  a 
reason  that  appears,  at  first,  probable  enough. 
It  was  the  love  of  her  children  that  preserved 
her  from  all  peril;  she  would  have  needed 
more  than  one  heart  to  love  several  objects  at 
the  same  time.  "  I  perceive  every  day,"  she 
writes   to  her  daughter,  "  that   the  big  fishes 


The  Woman.  29 

devour  the  small  fry."  But  this  explanation 
does  not  explain  all.  In  reality,  Madame  de 
Sevigne's  love  for  her  daughter  was  sufficient 
to  her  only  because  she  did  not  feel  the  need 
of  another  affection.  These  are  sentiments 
of  different  nature,  and  are  not  always  mutually 
exclusive :  by  the  side  of  maternal  love  there 
is  a  large  place  open  for  another  kind  of  love. 
Must  we  then,  as  it  has  been  said,  attribute  her 
virtue  to  her  piety?  But  she  was  not  at  that 
time  especially  devout;  besides,  religion  might 
prevent  her  from  having  a  lover,  but  not  from 
taking  another  husband.  Examples  were  fre- 
quent around  her;  there  is  no  epoch  when 
widov/hood  was  borne  with  so  little  grace.  M. 
de  Grignan  had  already  been  twice  married, 
and  Mademoiselle  de  Sevigne  was  merely  his 
third  wife.  "  He  changes  wives  as  he  changes 
horses,"  said  Bussy.  The  Prince  de  Gu^mene 
had  recently  lost  a  deeply-loved  wife,  and  he 
was  said  to  be  plunged  in  the  blackest  grief, 
when,  at  the  expiration  of  three  months,  peo- 
ple were  informed  one  morning  that  he  had 
been  married  the  previous  evening  at  mid- 
night, with  the  privity  of  no  one  save  the  king. 
"  Having  eaten  salt  all  his  life,"  wrote  Madame 
de  Sevign^  to  her  daughter,  "  he  cannot  do 
without  it ;  three  months  of  widowerhood  have 
seemed    to    him   three  centuries  ;    speculation 


30  \.'ame  de  Sevigne. 

does  not  divert  the  mind  ;  all  this  is  done  in 
support  of  the  home,  and  his  affection  is  based 
upon  this  immovable  solid."  The  Duke  de 
Saint-Aignan  waited  a  little  longer.  After 
weeping  the  loss  of  his  wife  for  six  months,  and 
affecting  to  retire  into  a  desert,  he  quietly  mar- 
ried "  a  little  waiting-maid"  of  the  duchess, — 
he  being  then  seventy-three  years  of  age.  The 
following  year  a  son  was  born,  who  became, 
like  himself,  a  member  of  the  Academy,  and 
who  lived  until  1776  ;  thus  the  father  was  born 
in  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.,  while  the  son  died 
in  the  reign  of  Louis  XVI.  What  the  men  did 
the  women  did ;  and  no  one  would  have  blamed 
Madame  de  Sevigne  had  she  promptly  found 
a  successor  for  that  husband  whom,  it  was 
thought,  she  had  too  long  mourned.  It  is 
said,  indeed,  that  her  experience  of  marriage 
had  not  been  such  as  to  make  her  eager  to  try 
it  again ;  but  there  is  no  lack  of  women  who 
have  been  no  more  fortunate  than  she,  and  who 
have  not  permitted  that  circumstance  to  dis- 
may them.  On  the  contrary,  they  deem  them-, 
selves  entitled  to  some  amends,  their  want  of 
success  the  first  time  being  but  an  added  rea- 
son for  trying  their  fortune  once  more.  If 
Madame  de  Sevign^  did  not  do  the  same,  it  is 
because  her  taste  was  different,  and  she  did  not 
feel  drawn  that  way  by  nature.     In  this  respect 


The  Woman. 


zx 


her  dauglitcr  resembled  her,  and  her  son  also, 
notwithstanding  his  frolics.  He  had  his  mis- 
tresses, but  only  for  the  sake  of  being  like 
others  of  his  age  and  station ;  and  La  Roche- 
foucauld, a  good  judge  in  such  matters,  thought 
him  not  "  of  the  material  of  which  passions  are 
made."  Both  in  the  son  and  in  the  daughter 
this  coldness  of  temperament  was  an  inheri- 
tance from  their  mother. 


III. 

For  all  that,  we  must  not  believe  Bussy 
when  he  tells  us  of  his  cousin  that  "  all  her 
warmth  was  in  her  mind."  She  loved  much, 
and  with  genuine  affection;  she  merely  ac- 
corded to  friendship  what  she  denied  to  love. 
She  spent  her  youth  in  making  friends  who 
remained  such  throughout  her  life.  Is  there 
a  more  enviable  lot?  If  she  lent  a  willing  ear 
to  the  declarations  that  men  made  her,  it  was 
principally  because  the  sport  amused  her;  she 
w^as  very  glad  to  inspire  in  others  sentiments 
that  she  could  not  share.  But  I  think  also 
that  she  must  have  feared  to  repel,  by  too  great 
severity,  the  men  of  sense  and  courage  who 
surrounded  her.  On  no  account  would  she  lose 
a  friend ;  so  she  did  not  scruple  to  encourage 
their  addresses.     Being  no  prude,  and  as  words 


Madame  de  Sevigiie. 

did  not  frighten  her,  she  let  them  talk.  Her 
skill  was  unequalled  to  check  them  by  a  smile 
when  they  threatened  to  go  too  far,  and  to  en- 
courage them  by  a  kind  word  when  they  began 
to  despair.  Are  these  really  the  tricks  of  a 
coquette?  So  it  has  been  asserted,  and  per- 
haps justly ;  but  may  there  not  be  in  friendship 
an  allowable  coquetry,  just  as  there  is  in  love? 
Madame  de  Sevigne  did  not  deceive  those  who 
paid  their  court  to  her ;  she  made  them  under- 
stand clearly  how  far  she  could  meet  them,  and 
what  they  might  hope  from  her.  Within  these 
limits  she  was  capable  of  making  great  efforts 
to  retain  them,  and  to  keep  alive  within  them 
that  degree  of  warmth  and  of  vivacity  which 
belongs  to  genuine  attachments. 

Of  all  these  adroit  and  charming  ways  some 
trace  remains  in  her  correspondence.  It  was 
perhaps  with  her  tutor,  Menage,  that  she  first 
had  to  exercise  her  tact.  She  owed  much  to 
him,  and  was  anxious  not  to  wound  him.  Be- 
sides, she  was  not  loath  to  be  celebrated  by 
one  of  the  finest  minds  of  her  time.  "  Always 
speak  kindly  of  me,"  she  wrote  to  him ;  "  it 
does  me  signal  honor."  This  learned  man  had 
the  foible  of  wishing  to  appear  too  much  like  a 
man  of  fashion  ;  he  liked  to  distinguish  between 
himself  and  college  dons,  whom  he  treated  with 
profound  disdain.     In  order  to  put  down  his 


The  Womajz.  33 

enemy,  Father  Bouhours,  he  thinks  it  sufficient 
to  call  the  latter  "  a  little  schoolmaster  of  the 
third  form,  who  sets  up  to  be  a  refined  critic." 
Manage  was  anxious  above  all  things  not  to  be 
taken  for  a  pedant.  In  his  youth  he  had  at- 
tempted to  learn  the  corant  and  the  gavot  in 
order  to  give  himself  a  fashionable  air;  but  he 
confesses  that  after  three  months  of  unavailing 
efforts  he  was  obliged  to  give  it  up.  Even  his 
most  erudite  books  are  pervaded  by  this  cox- 
combry. Addressing  a  dedicatory  epistle  to 
the  Chevalier  de  Mere,  a  fashionable  wit,  he 
says :  "  I  pray  you  to  recollect  that  when  we 
were  rivals  for  the  favor  of  a  lady  of  high  rank 
and  worth,  whatever  the  passion  I  may  have 
felt  for  this  noble  person,  I  gladly  permitted 
her  to  love  you  more  than  me,  because  I  loved 
you  more  than  I  loved  myself."  Such  fop- 
pery appears  singular  enough  at  the  head  of 
the  "  Observations  on  the  French  Language." 
He  was  a  great  ladies'  man,  and  liked  to  pay 
them  tender  compliments  in  the  manner  of  the 
time ;  the  mischief  was  that  poor  Menage, 
while  courting  them  for  the  mere  gentility  of 
the  thing,  became  himself  more  deeply  infatu- 
ated than  he  could  have  wished.  What  was 
intended  to  be  a  mere  game,  like  the  gallantry 
of  Voiture  to  Mademoiselle  Paulet,  turned  out 
rather  more  seriously  in  the  case  of  Menage. 
3 


34  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

He  was  at  first  greatly  enamoured  of  Mademoi- 
selle de  la  Vergne,  who  afterwards  became 
Madame  de  Lafayette,  and  at  the  very  time  to 
which  Cardinal  de  Retz  referred  when  he  said 
of  her,  "  She  pleased  me  much,  and  the  truth 
is  that  I  pleased  her  little."  Menage,  in  order 
to  be  more  fortunate,  overwhelmed  her  with 
compliments  in  all  languages  ;  he  celebrated 
her  in  Latin  verses,  in  which  he  called  her  — 

"  Sequanidum  sublime  decus,  formosa  Laverna,"  ^ 

then  in  French  and  in  Italian.  He  next  turned 
to  Madame  de  Sevigne,  whose  assiduous  wor- 
shipper he  was  for  several  years.  From  such 
of  her  letters  to  him  as  have  been  preserved,  it 
is  easy  to  see  that  the  course  of  his  love  was 
by  no  means  smooth.  Menage  was  never  sat- 
isfied. If  everything  was  refused,  he  com- 
plained bitterly  ;  he  complained  still  more 
when  too  much  seemed  to  be  granted,  for  then 
he  thought  himself  treated  as  a  person  of  no 
consequence.  His  good  opinion  of  himself  did 
not  prevent  him  from  perceiving  at  times  the 
absurd  role  that  a  lover  of  his  age  and  station 
played  in  society  ;  besides,  his  many  enemies 
did   not  let  him  forget  it.     Then   he  became 

1  "  Lovely  Laverna,  stateliest  lily  on  the  bank  of  Seine." 
"  Laverna  "  was  Menage's  love-Latin  for  her  maiden  name, 
La  Vergne.  —  Tr. 


The  Woman,  35 

defiant,  rude,  capricious,  ill-humored  ;  he  sulked 
and  made  scenes.  We  have  verses  by  him  in 
which  he  breaks  out  violently  against  Madame 
de  Sevignd :  — 

"  At  length  my  wrath  bursts  forth  :  't  is  done  ; 
I  will  forget  the  ungrateful  one 
Who  ridicules  my  pain  and  tears  ; 


Thou  haughty,  cold,  and  cruel  dame  ; 
Ves,  all  my  love  forget,  conceal, 
Thou  tigress  with  the  heart  of  steel ! 
And  in  the  blackest  deep  of  night 
Bury  thy  memory  out  of  sight." 

Madame  de  Sevign^  was  constantly  soothing 
him.  Sometimes  she  gently  rallied  him  to 
make  him  smile;  on  occasion  she  could  feign 
jealousy:  "You  make  this  mock  quarrel  with 
me  only  that  you  may  give  yourself  entirely 
to  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vcrgne."  If  he  affected 
to  remain  obstinately  at  home,  she  unhesitat- 
ingly wrote  to  him :  "  I  beg  you  once  more  to 
come  to  me;  and  since  you  are  not  willing  that 
it  should  be  to-day,  I  pray  you  let  it  be  to- 
morrow. Should  you  not  come,  perhaps  you 
will  not  shut  your  door  against  me,  and  you 
will  be  forced  to  admit  yourself  a  little  in  the 
wrong."  On  another  occasion,  when  he  was 
about  to  depart  from  Paris,  probably  in  dud- 
geon toward  her,  she    closed    her  letter  with 


36  Madame  de  Sevig7ie. 

the  words :  "  Adieu,  my  friend,  of  all  friends 
the  best."  Who  could  resist  such  kind 
words?  His  wrath  melted,  and  the  sulker  was 
reconquered. 

It  was  no  great  feat  to  make  Menage  listen 
to  reason.  But  Madame  de  Sevigne  had  to 
contend  with  much  more  dangerous  aspirants. 
Her  cousin  Bussy,  who  had  despised  her,  or 
rather  feared  her,  when  she  was  Mademoiselle 
de  Chantal,  changed  his  mind  after  she  was 
married.  He  slyly  endeavored  to  profit  by  the 
infidelities  of  her  husband,  which  he  took  care 
to  make  known  to  her  in  order  to  arouse  her 
to  revenge.  His  failure  did  not  daunt  him; 
he  relates  that,  after  her  widowhood,  he  was 
the  first  to  speak  to  her  of  love.  But  he  ad- 
mits, with  a  frankness  creditable  to  him,  that 
he  was  no  more  fortunate  than  before.  Al- 
though the  character  of  friend  did  not  seem 
quite  sufficient  to  him,  he  was  forced  to  be 
content  with  it;  he  had,  as  he  says,  to  will 
what  she  willed,  and  to  love  her  in  her  own 
way. 

Fouquet,  the  Minister  of  Finance,  was  a 
still  more  formidable  suitor:  "Did  ever  minis- 
ter find  woman  cruel?  "  He  attacked  Madame 
de  Sevign6  with  the  intrepidity  of  one  accus- 
tomed to  success ;  but  he  also  was  obliged  "  to 
submit  to  reason."   It  is  known  that  he  wronged 


The  Wotnan.  2>7 

the  marchioness,  placing  her  letters  in  the 
famous  strong-box  where  he  kept  the  secret 
records  of  his  amours.  When  his  papers  were 
investigated  by  order  of  the  king,  these  letters 
were  found;  but  the  king  and  his  minister, 
Le  Tellicr,  who  read  them,  declared  them  "  the 
most  modest  letters  in  the  world."  Fouquet, 
therefore,  —  the  all-poivcrful  Fouquet,  —  had 
submitted  like  the  rest.  "  When  you  do  not  will 
what  others  will,"  wrote  Bussy  to  his  cousin, 
"others  must  conform  their  wills  to  yours; 
one  is  still  too  happy  to  be  numbered  among 
your  friends.  There  is  hardly  another  woman 
in  the  kingdom  who  can  reduce  her  lovers  to 
content  themselves  with  mere  friendship." 

Few  people  have  had  as  many  friends  as 
Madame  dc  Scvigne.  In  all  the  crises  of  her 
life,  her  correspondence  shows  her  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  devoted  persons  eager  to  be  agree- 
able or  useful  to  her.  She  herself  wondered 
at  this  general  good-nature.  "  I  receive  a 
thousand  marks  of  friendship,"  she  says;  "I 
am  quite  ashamed  of  it.  I  know  not  what  pos- 
sesses people  to  esteem  me  so  much."  The 
explanation  was,  however,  very  near  at  hand,  —  ^ 
she  was  beloved  because  she  loved  others.  A 
Whatever  may  be  said,  this  is  still  the  surest 
way  to  win  hearts;  people  only  returned  to 
her  what  she  gave.     One  of  those  who  knew 


211 


38  Madame  de  Sevigne, 

her  best,  La  Rochefoucauld,  was  in  the  habit 
of  saying  "  that  she  satisfied  his  idea  of  friend- 
ship in  all  its  conditions  and  consequences." 
It  is  unfortunate  that  La  Rochefoucauld  did 
not  develop  his  opinion,  and  tell  us  by  reason 
of  what  qualities  Madame  de  Sevigne  seemed 
to  him  to  deserve  this  noble  praise ;  we  should 
then  have  had  a  treatise  on  friendship  by  a 
master-hand.  What  he  neglected  to  do,  no 
one  can  do  to-day.  At  this  distance  from 
Madame  de  Sevigne,  many  things  escape  us 
that  were  obvious  to  the  people  of  her  time. 
Let  us,  however,  question  her  letters,  and  seek 
to  discover  if  possible  some  of  the  traits  that 
so  endeared  her  to  her  friends. 

What  strikes  one  at  the  outset  is  her  general 
kindness,  amiability,  and  good-will.  The  merit 
is  the  more  remarkable,  inasmuch  as  we  are 
here  dealing  with  an  intimate  correspondence 
in  which  she  could  freely  open  her  heart. 
Pascal  somewhere  says  :  "  Human  life  is  a  per- 
petual illusion;  people  do  nothing  but  deceive 
and  flatter  one  another.  No  one  speaks  of  us 
in  our  presence  as  he  speaks  of  us  in  our 
absence.  The  union  existing  beween  men  is 
founded  merely  upon  this  mutual  deceit;  and 
few  friendships  would  continue,  could  every 
one  know  what  his  friend  says  of  him  behind 
his  back,"    It  appears  to  mc  that  the  majority 


The  Woman.  39 

of  those  of  whom  Madame  de  Sevigne  speaks 
to  her  daughter  could  have  read  her  letters 
without  suffering  any  of  those  cruel  wounds 
that  cannot  be  pardoned.  This  is  a  test  that  few 
private  correspondences  would  stand.  When 
one  thinks  one's  self  sure  of  the  person  one 
addresses,  when,  trusting  to  his  discretion,  one 
reveals  the  fugitive  impressions  that  cross  the 
mind,  how  many  ill-judged  disclosures,  how 
many  unjust  suspicions,  how  many  baseless  ac- 
cusations, escape  in  a  first  impulse  of  anger, — 
how  many  unhandsome  sayings  which  one  can- 
not control,  and  which  one  would  gladly  with- 
draw as  soon  as  uttered !  Whatever  may  have 
been  said,  I  see  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing, 
of  the  kind  in  Madame  de  Sevigne.  She  had 
too  keen  a  sense  of  humor  not  to  perceive  the 
eccentricities  of  her  friends,  but  she  touches 
them  lightly;  she  is  not  always  tender  to  the 
coxcombs  who  annoy  her  and  to  the  bores 
who  come  to  pester  her;  she  sometimes  tells 
a  good  story  to  amuse  her  daughter,  and,  once 
under  way,  her  vivacity  gets  possession  of  her 
and  carries  her  farther  than  she  would  have 
desired  ;  but  her  mockery  does  not  draw  blood, 
like  that  of  Bussy,  and  her  jests  are  always 
softened  by  a  smile.  On  the  whole,  I  find  no 
one,  of  all  those  she  mentions  in  her  corre- 
spondence, whom  she  thoroughly  disliked.    She 


.\o  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

passes  favorable  judgments  upon  ajl  her  ac- 
quaintances ;  to  her  everybody  is  good,  —  "  the 
altogether  Good,"  "  the  good  Troche,"  "  the 
good  D'Hacqueville,"  "  the  good  Marbeuf," 
,  "  the  good  Tarente ;  "  to  her  the  world  is  beau- 
tiful and  its  inhabitants  good.  I  am  aware  that 
she  became  irritated  one  day,  when  in  bad 
humor,  by  the  optimism  of  Malebranche.  "I 
should  like  to  complain  to  Father  Malebranche 
of  the  mice  that  devour  everything  here, — 
is  that  in  accordance  with  the  proper  order  of 
things?  What!  good  sugar,  fruit,  preserves? 
And  was  it  in  order  last  year  that  hideous 
caterpillars  should  devour  all  the  leaves  of 
our  forest  and  of  our  gardens,  and  all  the 
fruits  of  the  earth?  And  Father  Paien,  who 
gets  knocked  on  the  head  as  he  is  going  home 
peaceably,  —  is  that  just  as  it  should  be?" 
But  this  is  only  a  sullen  fit;  as  a  rule  it  does 
not  appear  to  her  that  things  are  as  bad  as 
people  pretend.  She  has  none  of  those  revolts 
P  against  accepted  opinions  which  are  so  com- 
mon in  more  crabbed  natures.  "  There  is  my 
old  thesis  again,  for  which  they  will  stone  me 
one  of  these  days ;  namely,  that  the  public  is 
neither  mad  nor  unjust."  Fven  when  arrived 
at  the  decline  of  life,  she  judges  the  world 
without  bitterness,  and  she  casts  no  look  of 
disappointment   upon   her  past  years.     Upon 


The  Woman.  41 

recalling,  one  day,  certain  unhappy  experiences 
of  her  life,  she  remarked  to  her  daughter :  "  Do 
you  think  my  lot  has  been  very  happy?  I 
am  satisfied  with  it."  Sometimes,  indeed,  she 
had  at  eventide  "  dark-gray  thoughts,  which  at 
night  became  deep  black."  But  she  usually 
left  these  in  her  solitude,  where  they  disturbed 
no  one  but  herself.  She  was  one  of  those 
persons  who  are  stimulated  by  society,  and  '^ 
who  find  themselves  so  happy  in  the  compan- 
ionship of  friends,  that  they  forget  their  sorrows 
and  scatter  joy  wherever  they  go.  She  had  a 
hearty  laugh,  and  the  most  melancholy  found 
her  frank  gaycty  infectious.  She  could  relax 
the  brow  of  Cardinal  de  Retz,  that  man  of 
disappointed  ambition ;  when  she  entered  the 
garden  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  where 
morose  La  Rochefoucauld  and  discreet  Madame 
de  Lafayette  were  gloomily  growing  old  to- 
gether, she  was  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  through 
the  fog.  There  are  people  who  are  kind  to 
all  by  reason  of  a  sort  of  general  indifference, 
and  who  receive  everybody  well  because  they 
are  partial  to  none.  Madame  de  Sevigne's 
friendship  was,  on  the  contrar}',  capable  of  a 
warmth  that  was  at  times  surprising.  Napoleon 
remarks,  upon  reading  the  letters  she  wrote 
to  M.  de  Pomponnc  during  the  trial  of  Fou- 
quet,    that    her    interest    in    the    Minister    of 


42  Aladame  de  Sevigne. 

Finance  is  very  warm,  very  keen,  very  tender, 
for  simple  friendship.  This  was  her  way  of 
loving  her  friends ;  and  there  was  in  this  case 
an  especial  reason  that  prevented  restraint,  and 
gave  added  vivacity  to  the  expression  of  her 
feelings,  —  this  friend  was  unfortunate. 

Let  us  be  mindful,  in  this  connection,  that 
Madame  de  Sevigne  belongs,  by  her  age  and 
by  her  education,  to  the  first  half  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  She  is  one  of  those  who  first 
applauded  Corneille's  dramas,  and  who  formed 
their  minds  and  hearts  upon  the  romances  of  La 
Calprenede  and  of  Mademoiselle  de  Scudery. 
These  are,  as  literary  works,  very  mediocre 
books ;  but  they  are  pervaded  by  a  certain 
ideal  of  courtesy  and  heroism  that  must  have 
been  attractive  to  a  young  heart.  Long  after- 
wards, in  her  lonely  retreat  at  Les  Rochers, 
she  re-read  "  Cleopatra,"  and  felt  again  all 
^  her  early  emotion.  "  La  Calprenede's  style  i^ 
abominable  in  a  thousand  places,"  said  she  | 
"  the  long  periods  of  the  romance  are  full  of 
barbarous  words ;  I  am  aware  of  all  that.  The 
other  day  I  wrote  a  very  merry  letter  to  my 
son  in  that  style.  Thus  I  think  it  wretched, 
and  yet  I  cannot  help  being  caught  by  it  as 
by  birdlime.  The  beauty  of  the  sentiments, 
the  violence  of  the  passions,  the  grandeur  of 
the  incidents,   and  the  miraculous  success  of 


The  Woman.  43 

their  formidable  swords,  —  all  this  carries  me 
away  as  if  I  were  a  little  girl."  These  admira- 
tions of  her  youth  left  their  mark  upon  her; 
they  left  her  with  a  sort  of  natural  taste  for  ail- 
that  is  great,  daring,  heroic.  She  likes  to  defy 
fortune;  she  feels  a  certain  pride  in  not  chang- 
ing with  fortune,  and  in  remaining  true  to  those 
whom  fortune  forsakes.  When  the  finance 
minister  was  all-powerful,  she  had  repelled 
him;  when  he  was  reduced  to  struggle  for  his 
life  with  biassed  and  hostile  judges,  she  felt 
for  him  an  affection  bordering  upon  love. 
Likewise  the  disgrace  of  Pomponne  rendered 
him  dearer  to  her.  "  Misfortune  shall  not 
drive  him  from  this  house,"  said  she  when  she 
heard  of  his  dismissal ;  and  she  kept  her  word. 
In  her  letters,  one  feels  her  affection  growing 
warmer  in  proportion  as  she  sees  him  sadder 
and  more  forsaken.  This  generous  devotion 
enhances  her  natural  good-nature  and  kindness 
of  heart,  and  gives  those  qualities  an  added 
charm.  Is  it  surprising  that,  with  such  amia- 
ble traits,  she  should  have  been  so  much 
beloved? 

fv*. 

It  seems  to  me  that,  in  order  to  know  Ma- 
dame de  S6vign6,  it  is  not  sufficient  to  study 
herself.     We  need  a  glimpse,  at  least,  of  some 


44  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

of  those  she  loved.  So  tenderly  was  she  at- 
tached to  them,  that  they  form  a  part,  as  it 
were,  of  her  very  existence,  so  that  she  would 
be  incomplete  without  them. 

Let  us  begin  this   review  of  her  intimates 
with  those  who  were  nearest  her,  —  her  chil- 

>(dren.  Her  son  was  the  soul  of  honor  and 
good-nature ;  and  in  all  her  correspondence 
there  are  few  more  attractive  figures  than  his. 

^  He  worshipped  his  mother,  and  never  occa- 
sioned her  any  serious  sorrow.  I  admit  that 
she  was  sometimes  pained  to  see  him  fre- 
quenting bad  company  and  compromising 
reputation  and  health    in  gallant  adventures; 

_^yet  we  find  her  rather  easy-going  about  this. 
When  she  attempted  to  administer  some  re- 
proof, the  son  retorted  so  gayly  that  the  ser- 
mon usually  ended  with  a  burst  of  laughter. 
Moreover,  when  he  came  home  to  recover 
from  his  slight  wound  in  the  retirement  of  Les 
Rochers,  he  brought  with  him  so  much  wit, 
so  much  good-nature,  such  conversational  re- 
sources, so  just  an  estimate  of  good  books, — 
he  was,  in  short,  such  excellent  company,  that 
Madame  de  Sevigne's  affection  for  "  the  little 
friend  "  was  deepened,  and  she  could  no  longer 
do  without  him. 

It  appears  to  us  that  Charles    de    Sevigne 
ought  to  have  been  his  mother's  favorite  child. 


The  Woman.  45 

In  the  first  place,  he  was  a  son ;  and  we  know 
the  infinite  indulgence  shown  by  aristocratic 
families  for  hinTwho  is  to  continue  the  race. 
Besides,  he  was  the  best  of  sons,  the  most/ 
affectionate,  the  most  docile.  Assuredly  Ala- 
dame  de  Sevigne  loved  him  well,  but  she  loved 
her  daughter  better.  Why?  We  do  not  know/ 
and  probably  she  did  not  know  any  better  than 
we  do.  Nor  did  those  who  surrounded  her 
understand  it.  Despite  the  care  they  took  to 
humor  her  foible,  we  plainly  see  that  her  best 
friends,  notably  Madame  de  Lafayette,  thought 
her  to  be  in  the  wrong.  Moralists  tell  us  that 
the  least  rational  and  the  most  unreasonable 
passions  are  generallythe  strongest.  That  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne  was  of  an  extraordinary 
degree  of  violence.'  All  the  fervor  of  her  soul'' 
was  thrown  into  this  feeling.  Ilcr  maternal 
affection  sometimes  seemed  to  partake  of  the 
nature  of  love,  of  which  it  had  the  agitations 
and  the  storms ;  like  love,  it  constituted  the 
happiness  and  the  torment  of  the  heart  which 
it  entirely  engrossed. 

Madame  de  Grignan,  the  object  of  this  pas- 
sion, has  been  judged  with  much  severity  in 
her  time  and  in  our  own.  Bussy  said  of  her: 
"  This  woman  has  wit,  but  a  tart  wit,  alloyed 
with  intolerable  vanity.  She  will  make  as 
many  enemies  as  her  mother  has  made  friends 


46  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

and  worshippers,"  Saint-Simon,  who  had  been 
well  acquainted  with  her  son,  the  young  Mar- 
quis de  Grignan,  treats  her  no  better.  It  is 
unfortunate  for  her  that  the  reading  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne's  letters  does  not  seem  calculated 
to  soften  this  judgment.  No.twithstanding  all 
the  praises  she  heaps  upon  her  daughter,  we 
obtain  impressions  unfavorable  to  the  latter; 
The  poor  mother  would  be  inconsolable  could 
she  see  that  she  is  the  cause  of  the  anti- 
pathy we  feel  for  Madame  de  Grignan.  It 
is  certain  that  Madame  de  Sevigne  has  done 
her  daughter's  reputation  great  unintentional 
injury.  We  love  the  mother  so  much,  she 
seems  so  kind,  so  gentle,  so  obliging,  that  we 
ask  ourselves  how  a  daughter  who  was  the 
object  of  such  worship  and  such  adulation 
could  have  found  any  difficulty  in  agreeing 
with  such   a  mother. 

It  is,  however,  not  hard  to  understand 
when  one  considers  how  different  they  were. 
Glance  at  their  two  portraits,  which  are  often 
set  in  the  same  frame;  the  contrast  is  com- 
plete. Nothing  is  more  unlike  that  open, 
broad  face,  radiant  with  the  mother's  good-will, 
sincerity,  and  good-humor,  than  the  slight, 
delicate,  mincing  features  of  the  daughter. 
But  there  was  still  more  diversity  in  their  char- 
acters.    Madame    de  Grignan  united  two    de- 


The  Woman.  47 

fccts  which  seem  opposed,  but  which  are  often 
found  together,  —  pride  and  timidity.  One 
who  has  great  ambition  and  an  exalted  opinion 
of  himself  which  he  desires  others  to  share,  is 
always  disturbed  about  what  others  think  of 
him,  and  fears  to  risk  anything  for  fear  of  not 
succeeding  as  well  as  he  could  wish.  In  her 
youth  Madame  de  Grignan  was  apt  to  blush 
at  the  least  word  that  was  said  to  her ;  and  she 
was  so  much  annoyed  by  this  that  she  would 
leave  a  ball-room  rather  than  let  malicious 
people  discover  her  embarrassment.  Time 
and  intercourse  with  the  great  world  never  ^ 
gave  her  perfect  self-possession.  One  day,  at  '"" 
cards,  she  became  so  much  embarrassed  that 
she  threw  all  the  stakes  upon  the  floor,  where- 
upon the  Duke  pitilessly  ridiculed  her.  This 
was  "  one  of  those  cruel  little  incidents  "  that 
are  so  keenly  felt  at  court.  Usually,  timid>c 
people  wear  a  mask  of  pride.  To  hide  their 
timidity,  of  which  they  are  ashamed,  they  as- 
sume an  air  of  insolence.  Their  reserve,  which 
usually  springs  from  their  embarrassment, 
seems  to  arise  from  the  contempt  they  feel 
for  others.  Madame  de  Grignan  passed  for 
a  very  disdainful  person,  even  in  the  eyes  of 
those  most  intimate  with  her.  Her  husband, 
before  taking  her  with  him  to  the  seat  of  his 
government,  said  in   confidence  to  Madame  de 


48  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

S^vign6,  *'  Madame,  she  will  not  condescend 
to  look  at  the  poor  women  of  Provence," 
Haughty  people,  or  those  who  pass  for  such, 
are  generally  detested.  Madame  de  Grignan 
well  knew  that  she  was  not  liked,  and  she  com- 
plained of  it  to  her  mother,  who  only  partially 
reassured  her.  This  sense  of  being  misjudged 
rendered  her  bitter  and  ill-natured.  As  peo- 
ple were  ungentle  toward  her,  she  in  her  turn 
was  severe  toward  others.  She  spoke  well 
of  few  persons,  and  spared  not  even  her 
mother's  best  friends.  She  did  not  relish 
the  wit  of  Madame  de  Lafayette  ;  the  Duke 
de  Chaulnes  seemed  to  her  an  ill-bred  man ; 
she  managed  to  find  it  dull  with  Coulanges ; 
she  teased  Corbinelli;  she  rudely  refused  a 
present  from  Cardinal  de  Retz,  who  had  called 
her  his  dear  niece  and  meant  to  make  her  his 
heiress.  These  were  reprisals  for  the  harsh 
judgments  which  she  knew  people  passed 
upon  her ;  she  avenged  herself  for  the  world's 
opinion  by  deserving  it. 

How  far  is  this  from  the  large-heartedncss 
of  Madame  de  Sevigne, —  from  her  habit  of 
looking  at  everything  in  the  best  light,  and  of 
judging  people  only  by  their  good  sides  !  She, 
at  least,  was  neither  vain  nor  timid;  she  did 
not  trouble  herself  beforehand  concerning  the 
impression  she  might  make.    When  she  needed 


The  Woman.  49 

to  write  or  speak  she  "  opened  the  floodgates," 
and  everything  that  came  into  her  mind, 
everything  she  had  upon  her  heart,  escaped 
at  once.  Madame  de  Grignan,  on  the  contrary, 
felt  a  kind  of  constriction  of  soul  that  checked 
the  free  flow  of  her  feelings.  She  herself  said 
that  she  was  "  of  an  uncommunicative  temper- 
ament; "  this  phrase,  of  which  we  make  so 
much  use  to-day,  and  which  she  was  one  of 
the  first  to  employ,  fits  her  perfectly.  She 
could  not  talk  before  her  mother;  she  seemed 
embarrassed,  indifferent;  she  knew  not  how 
to  respond  to  the  proofs  of  friendship  with 
which  she  felt  herself  hampered.  Later  on, 
when  alone,  and  away  from  the  presence  that 
paralyzed  her,  she  regained  her  freedom  of 
mind,  and  words  of  affection  flowed  from  her 
pen.  "  Cruel  child,"  wrote  Madame  de  Se- 
vign6  to  her,  "  why  do  you  hide  from  me  such 
precious  treasures?  Are  you  afraid  that  I 
should  die  of  joy?"  A  lukewarm  person  is 
naturally  embarrassed  by  the  warmth  of  others ; 
he  feels  a  sort  of  shame  in  receiving  marks  of 
affection  to  which  he  cannot  wholly  respond, 
Madame  de  Grignan  became  at  length  a  lit- 
tle tired  of  her  mother's  exuberant  affection. 
"  There  are  people,"  Madame  de  Sevigne  wTote 
her,  "  who  have  hinted  to  me  that  my  exces- 
sive love  annoys  you.  I  know  not,  my  dear 
4 


50  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

child,  if  this  be  true ;  but  I  can  assure  you 
that  I  have  been  far  from  wishing  to  give 
you  such  pain  as  this.  I  admit  that  I  have 
followed  my  inclination  somewhat  freely,  and 
have  seen  you  as  much  as  possible,  not  having 
had  self-restraint  enough  to  deny  myself  that 
pleasure;  but  I  did  not  think  I  had  been 
burdensome."  She  was  so  sometimes,  unwit- 
tingly. Pascal  has  said  that  in  love  tact  is 
requisite ;  but  he  is  capable  of  little  tact  who 
loves  to  excess.  Instead  of  moderating  and 
restraining  the  violence  of  her  affection,  the 
poor  mother  could  do  nothing  but  groan  and 
weep,  so  that  living  together  became  intoler- 
able. During  the  winter  of  1676,  after  an  ab- 
sence of  some  two  years,  Madame  de  Grignan 
had  returned  to  visit  her  mother  at  Paris. 
At  that  time,  unfortunately,  neither  was  very 
well;  the  daughter  was  suffering  with  her 
chest,  the  mother  was  slowly  recovering  from 
an  attack  of  rheumatism.  Each  being  anxious 
about  the  other,  they  wore  each  other  out  with 
their  mutual  solicitudes ;  it  was  an  existence 
of  unremitting  watchfulness,  apprehensions, 
extravagant  precautions,  endless  complaints, 
continual  reproaches.  On  the  plea  of  get- 
ting well  sooner,  they  made  each  other  worse, 
depriving  themselves  of  that  peace  of  mind 
in  which    health    half   consists.     Charles    de 


The  Woman.  51 

Sevigne,  himself  ill  of  a  wound  he  had  received 
at  the  siege  of  Valenciennes,  told  his  sister 
how  his  mother  and  he  arranged  to  nurse  each 
other,  and,  with  his  kindly  good-sense,  gave 
her  in  this    connection  a  little  lesson:  — 

"We  nurse  one  another,  each  granting  the 
other  a  suitable  degree  of  freedom ;  no  petty 
womanish  nostrums.  '  You  feel  well,  dear 
mother?  I  am  delighted.  Did  you  sleep  well 
last  night?  How  does  your  head  feel?  What, 
no  nervousness?  Heaven  be  praised.  Go  take 
the  air;  go  to  St.  Maur  and  dine  with  Madame 
de  Schomberg;  take  a  walk  in  the  Garden  of 
the  Tuilerics.  There  's  nothing  ails  you  ;  I  leave 
you  perfectly  free.  Do  you  wish  to  eat  straw- 
berries or  to  take  some  tea?  The  strawberries 
are  better  for  you.  Good-by,  mother.  —  My 
heel  hurts  me;  you  shall  nurse  me,  if  you  will, 
from  noon  till  three  o'clock,  then  away  with 
you  ! '  Such,  little  sister,  is  the  way  sensible 
people  treat  each  other."  But  they  were  not 
at  all  sensible,  and  the  mutual  worry  went  at 
last  so  far  that  they  were  obliged  to  part.  "  I 
am  beside  myself,"  w'rotc  Madame  de  Sevigne, 
"  when  they  come  to  me  and  say,  '  You  are 
killing  each  other;  you  must  separate.'  That 
is  a  fine  remedy,  indeed  !  "  It  was  true,  never- 
theless, that  they  were  killing  each  other;  and 
whatever  Madame  de  Sevigne  thought  of  the 


52  Madame  de  ScvigJie. 

separation,  it  turned  out  to  be  efificacious  in 
her  daughter's  case.  Scarcely  had  she  left 
Paris,  when  she  felt  herself  convalescent ;  and 
by  the  time  she  reached  Grignan  she  was 
cured. 

What  rent  the  heart  of  Madame  de  Sevigne 
was,  that  at  times,  after  such  scenes,  she  came 

"■^o  think  that  her  daughter  "  had  an  aversion 
for  her."  This  was  an  injustice  to  Madame 
de  Grignan,  who  loved  her  mother.  "  I  think," 
she  wrote  to  Bussy,  "  that  this  is  my  best  side." 
But  her  way  of  loving  was  not  that  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne.  That  this  affection,  though  calmer, 
was  not  less  real,  appears  from  the  fact  that 
when  the  hour  of  parting  came  there  were 
tears  on  both  sides.  "You  wept,  my  dearest," 
wrote  Madame  de  Sevigne  to  her  daughter  the 
day  after  her  departure,  "and  that  means  much 
for  you;  for  me  it  is  not  the  same  thing, — 
it  is  my  temperament."  Then  began  on  both 
sides  an  interminable  correspondence.  Let  it 
be  borne  in  mind  that  for  twenty-five  years 
Madame  de  Grignan  never  missed  a  post  un- 
less hindered  by  illness.  Year  in  and  year  out, 
whatever  her  occupations,  she  addressed  to  her 
mother,  twice  a  week,  letters  which  the  latter, 
when  she  considered  the  time  and  trouble  they 

^-must  cost,  thought  much  too  long,  and  which 
she  entreated  her  daughter  to  make  shorter, 


The  Woman.  53 

notwithstanding  the  pleasure  the  reading 
gave.  These  letters  must  have  been  much 
more  tender  and  affectionate  than  we  sup- 
pose, since  they  satisfied  the  exacting  love 
of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  It  is  probable  that 
Madame  de  Grignan's  timidity  disappeared 
at  a  distance;  when  no  longer  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  loved  ones,  she  was  not  ashamed 
to  be  natural.  She  then  ventured  to  dis- 
close her  real  feelings;  and  the  enraptured 
mother  said  to  her,  "  When  you  will,  you  are  - 
adorable." 

I  am,  then,  inclined  to  believe  that  we  should 
have  a  higher  opinion  of  Madame  de  Grignan 
if  we  could  read  her  letters ;  the  destruction 
of  them  was  a  wrong  to  her.  Perhaps  in  real- 
ity she  was  less  selfish,  less  indifferent,  than 
she  is  judged  to  have  been ;  the  indifferent 
do  not  suffer,  and  she  seems  to  have  suffered 
much.  Madame  de  Sevigne  often  admires  her 
daughter's  depth,  energy,  solidity,  and  places 
her,  on  that  score,  much  above  herself.  I  do 
not  think  these  compliments  altogether  de- 
served. We  are  usually  referred,  as  a  sign 
of  a  bold,  firm  judgment,  to  her  audacities  of 
opinion,  to  her  philosophic  escapades  in  the 
doctrine  of  Descartes,  to  her  slight  tendency 
to  heres>'.  I  confess  that  I  see  in  this  rather 
the  restlessness  of  an  unbalanced  mind,  a  need, 


54  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

as  it  were,  of  fighting  the  wind.  Hers  was,  at 
bottom,  a  sick,  uneasy  soul,  feeding  upon  illu- 
sions. Compelled  by  duty  to  live  in  society, 
she  dreamed  only  of  solitude ;  she  looked 
habitually  upon  the  darker  side,  and  found 
in  all  things  a  subject  for  vexation  of  spirit. 
Her  mother  reproached  her  with  having  a 
sort  of  relish  for  despair  and  gloom;  she 
already  made  one  of  that  company  of  the 
disenchanted  and  the  hopeless  which  has  since 
grown  so  numerous.  Instead  of  censuring  her, 
as  is  usually  done,  we  ought  perhaps  to  be  a 
little  sorry  for  her,  I  fancy  her  one  of  those 
unhappy  natures  fated,  while  tormenting  them- 
selves, to  be  the  torment  of  others. 


V. 

Her  daughter  and  her  son  excepted,  no  one 
had  a  larger  part  in  Madame  de  Sevigne's  life 
than  her  cousin.  Count  de  Bussy-Rabutin. 
Were  we  to  consider  him  on  every  side,  we 
should  have  much  to  say  of  him ;  he  is  one 
of  the  most  curious  personages  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  Let  us  confine  ourselves  as 
far  as  possible  to  what  it  is  needful  to  know 
in  order  to  understand  his  relations  with  his 
cousin. 


The  Woman.  57 

Few  persons  have  made  their  entrance  into 
life  in  so  noisy  a  way  as  Bussy.  A  soldier  at 
sixteen,  and  from  the  first  distinguished  for 
his  cool  daring,  he  takes  command  of  his 
father's  regiment  at  eighteen,  and  is  already 
a  notorious  roisterer.  At  twenty  he  is  ap- 
pointed colonel  of  infantry;  he  has  his  duels 
and  his  love  adventures ;  no  one  doubts  that 
he  is  on  the  high-road  to  fortune,  —  himself 
least  of  all.  Circumstances  are  favorable :  an 
important  war  has  begun,  which  brings  men 
of  courage  to  the  front;  there  is  promise  of  a 
glorious  reign,  and  men  feel  the  approach  of 
great  events.  Great  changes  are  taking  place, 
manners  and  opinions  are  being  renewed,  and 
already  the  actors  appear  who  are  to  play  the 
leading  parts  upon  this  renovated  stage.  Im- 
patient to  be  assigned  his  part,  Bussy  tries 
every  means  of  attracting  attention  :  he  adopts 
the  fashionable  qualities,  and  especially  the 
fashionable  vices  ;  he  startles,  he  surprises,  if 
need  be  he  shocks ;  he  compels  people  to 
talk  about  him.  Among  his  methods  of  get- 
ting himself  into  notice,  there  is  one  of  which 
he  certainly  would  not  have  thought  a  few 
years  earlier.  He  wishes  to  pass  for  an  ac- 
complished man  of  letters;  he  makes  verses 
which  he  gives  his  friends  —  especially  his 
lady    friends  —  to   read,    and    he    composes    a 


54  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

iiovel  which  he  circulates  in  fashionable  so- 
ciety. This  is  a  sign  of  the  times :  literature 
is  becoming  a  power,  and  Bussy  makes  use  of 
it  to  bring  himself  into  credit.  At  the  outset 
fortune  smiles  upon  him :  he  is  appointed 
lieutenant-general;  he  commands  the  light 
horse  under  Turenne;  he  becomes  a  member 
of  the  French  Academy.  Suddenly,  however, 
the  publication  of  his  "  Amorous  Chronicle  of 
the  Gauls,"  in  which  the  most  important  per- 
sonages in  the  kingdom  are  abused,  arouses 
the  wrath  of  his  victims ;  he  is  shut  up  in  the 
, Bastille  for  thirteen  months,  then  exiled  to  his 
lestate,  where  he  remained  for  seventeen  years 
before  getting  leave  to  return  to  Paris. 

It  was  in  this  book  that  he  placed  the 
portrait  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  from  which  I 
have  already  quoted  some  passages.  This  por- 
trait is  herein  remarkable,  —  that  while  noth- 
ing in  it  is  altogether  accurate,  nothing  in  it  is 
altogether  false.  The  features,  taken  singly, 
are  coarsened  and  distorted,  and  yet  a  general 
resemblance  is  traceable.  Thus  it  was  calcu- 
lated to  gratify  the  spirit  of  mischief  in  every- 
body: it  contained  enough  untruth  to  divert 
the  malicious,  and  enough  truth  to  enable 
friends  to  laugh  without  stint ;  even  the  good 
Corbinelli  acknowledges  that  he  could  not  read 
the    book   without    laughing.      The   wrath    of 


The  Woman.  57 

Madame  de  Sevign6  at  finding  herself  in  print, 
and  in  the  hands  of  the  public,  greatly  sur- 
prised Bussy;  he  was  one  of  those  persons 
who,  prompt  to  forget  the  mischief  they  have 
done,  are  astonished  that  those  should  remem- 
ber it  who  have  suffered  by  it.  Finally,  how- 
ever, he  sought  and  obtained  his  cousin's  ■ 
forgiveness,  and  they  renewed  a  correspond- 
ence which  continued  unbroken  to  the  last. 

It  is  by  the  help  of  this  correspondence 
that  we  can  follow  Bussy  into  his  exile.  We 
know  that  he  did  not  bear  it  with  fortitude, 
and  this  could  hardly  have  surprised  those 
who  thoroughly  knew  him.  In  him,  all  was 
upon  the  surface;  he  had  more  vanity  than 
ambition,  loved  notoriety  rather  than  fame, 
and,  despite  the  swaggering  airs  he  was  fond 
of  assuming,  was  wanting  in  genuine  energy. 
At  times  he  felt  it  to  be  his  cue  to  strike  an 
attitude  of  resignation  and  to  recite  some  of 
those  fine  phrases  which  fools  accept  as  veri- 
ties. "  Since  I  know,"  he  wrote,  "  that  a  man 
must  go  to  his  death  wherever  he  may  be,  I 
had  as  lief  start  from  Burgundy  upon  that 
journey  as  from  Paris  or  from  St.  Germain." 
In  reality,  he  intends  that  death  shall  find 
him,  not  in  Burgundy,  but  at  St.  Germain  or 
at  Paris.  His  hope  is  based  upon  a  bit  of 
reasoning  to  which  he  tenaciously  clings,  and 


58  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

which  he  often  repeats  to  his  friends.  Every- 
thing comes  about,  he  tells  them,  and  nothing 
abides ;  there  is  no  good  luck  or  bad  luck  that 
is  eternal.  If  the  fortunate  man  must  always 
fear,  the  unfortunate  may  always  hope.  Some 
day  his  turn  will  come;  the  main  thing  is,  not 
to  die  before  that  day  arrives.  The  whole 
wisdom  of  an  exile  consists,  accordingly,  in 
taking  care  of  himself  in  order  that  he  may 
not  miss  his  good  fortune.  To  this  Bussy 
looked  well,  endeavoring  so  far  as  might  be 
to  shun  all  emotions  injurious  to  his  health. 
When  he  lost  the  Marquis  de  Vardes,  one  of 
his  best  friends,  he  contented  himself  with 
writing  to  Corbinelli :  "  After  having  sincerely 
mourned  him,  let  us  both  endeavor  not  to  fol- 
low him  too  soon."  But  he  could  not  help 
feeling  that  the  day  to  which  he  looked  for- 
ward with  such  confidence,  that  day  of  amends 
and  of  justice,  was  long  in  coming;  more  than 
once  his  patience  fails,  the  mask  of  resignation 
drops,  and  the  inward  acrimony  shows  itself 
in  violent  satirical  strokes.  At  such  times  he 
attacks  the  king's  favorites,  his  mistresses,  his 
ministers.  Here  is  his  pithy  funeral  oration 
over  Colbert:  "  Seven  stones  were  found  in 
his  kidney,  a  circumstance  less  surprising  to 
me  than  that  none  were  found  in  his  heart." 
The   death   of  Madame  de  Seignelay,   at  the 


The  Woman.  59 

age  of  eighteen,  draws  from  him  this  burst  of 
savage  exultation:  "We  unfortunates  should 
be  in  despair  did  not  God  treat  us,  from  time 
to  time,  to  the  death  of  some  minister." 

Such  strokes  are  rare  in  his  correspond- 
ence, and  I  confess  that  I  regret  it;  I  like  him 
better  rebellious  than  submissive.  I  cannot 
abide  his  apparent  resignation,  belied  as  it  is 
by  his  continual  efforts  to  disarm  his  enemies 
and  to  deserve  pardon.  It  must  be  admitted 
that  his  situation  was  very  delicate,  and  that 
he  was  sensible  of  all  its  difficulties.  He  knew 
that  he  was  not  generally  liked ;  being  infatu- 
ated with  his  nobility  and  with  his  desert,  bit- 
ter, punctilious,  he  lived  on  good  terms  with 
nobody.  He  fell  out  one  day  with  Marshal 
de  Bellefonds  because  the  latter,  in  writing  to 
him,  had  made  use  of  this  phrase  :  "  I  beg  you 
to  keep  me  in  kind  remembrance."  It  should 
have  been,  "  the  honor  of  your  kind  remem- 
brance." The  "  Amorous  Chronicle  of  the 
Gauls  "  had  obtained  a  very  great  success,  but 
a  success  of  that  scandalous  kind  which  multi- 
plies readers  for  the  book  and  enemies  for  the 
author.  One  had  only  to  read  it  to  be  con- 
firmed in  the  opinion  that  Bussy  was  an  in- 
tolerable scoffer  who  respected  nothing.  We 
cannot  conceive,  to-day,  how  one  could  thus 
be  permitted  to  reveal  to  the  public  the  pri- 


6o  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

vate  life  of  the  leaders  of  society;  to  relate 
their  adventures  seasoned  with  disgusting  de- 
tails borrowed  from  the  most  cynical  writers  of 
antiquity.  Ruined  in  reputation  as  were  the 
Countess  d'Olonne  and  the  Duchess  de  Cha- 
tillon,  they  belonged  to  the  first  families  in  the 
kingdom ;  they  had  husbands,  relatives,  whom 
their  dishonor  must  cover  with  shame.  How 
was  it  possible  that  a  man  should  openly  de- 
clare, in  a  book  accessible  to  everybody,  that 
they  were  dissolute,  faithless,  mercenary ;  that 
they  changed  their  lovers  as  their  whims  or 
'""  their  needs  might  dictate  ;  that  they  sold  them- 
selves at  the  rate  of  two  thousand  pistoles  to 
farmers  of  the  revenue  who  could  boast  neither 
of  birth  nor  of  honor?  In  this  satirical  ro- 
mance nobody  is  spared,  — not  the  Prince  de 
Marcillac,  who  is  exhibited  as  crushing  his 
enemies,  like  Samson,  "  with  his  ass's  jaw;"  not 
the  Counts  de  Guiche  and  de  Manicamp,  to 
whom  the  most  shameful  vices  are  attributed  ; 
not  the  Prince  de  Conde,  "  a  born  scamp,  in- 
V  Solent,  reckless;"  not  the  Duchess  de  Longue- 
■^ille,  "who  was  untidy  and  smelt  bad."  When 
it  was  seen  that  Bussy  was  running  amuck 
against  everybody,  each  trembled  for  himself, 
and  all  applauded  the  punishment  of  an  in- 
solence from  which  none  felt  himself  secure. 
Bussy  felt,    therefore,  that    he  was   not  sup- 


The  Woman.  6i 

ported  by  the  opinion  of  his  contemporaries, 
and  his  vexation  was  not  lessened  by  the  fore- 
boding that  he  could  count  with  as  little  safety 
upon  the  good-will  of  posterity.  He  had  no 
hope,  he  said  to  Madame  de  Scvigne,  that  his- 
tory would  treat  him  better  than  fortune  had 
done,  "  because  they  who  write  it  are  pension- 
ers of  the  court,  and  base  their  books  merely 
upon  ministerial  reports."  He  has  been  still 
more  unfortunate  than  he  anticipated.  He  has 
been  severely  dealt  with  not  merely  by  the  offi- 
cial historians,  but  by  independent  writers  who 
had  nothing  to  expect  from  the  court,  and 
who  detested  the  ministers.  Saint-Evremond, 
who  was  also  exiled,  and  for  less  solid  rea- 
sons, did  not  spare  him,  "  He  preferred,"  says 
Saint-Evremond,  "  to  his  own  promotion  the" 
pleasure  of  writing  a  book,  and  of  making  peo- 
ple laugh ;  he  wished  to  make  a  merit  of  his 
freedom  of  speech,  and  did  not  play  his  part 
to  the  end.  When  a  man  misses  his  fortune  by 
his  own  act,  doing  with  malice  prepense  all 
that  M.  de  Bussy  did,  he  should  pass  the  rest 
of  his  days  in  retirement,  and  sustain  with  a 
little  dignity  the  awkward  role  he  has  been  * 
ill-advised  enough  to  assume."  Saint-Simon, 
who  is  no  more  suspected  of  servility  than 
Saint-Evremond,  and  who  docs  not  rely  upon 
the  ministerial  reports,  encountering  Bussy  in 


62  Madame  de  Sevizne. 


i> ' 


his  pathway,  simply  says  of  him  that  "  he  is 
known  by  his  '  Amorous  Chronicle  of  the 
Gauls,*  and  better  still  by  the  vanity  of  his 
limind   and  the   meanness    of  his    spirit." 

He  spent  the  seventeen  years  of  his  exile  in 
his  Burgundian  estates  at  Chaseu,  at  Forleans, 
at  Bussy.  By  a  rare  and  fortunate  chance  the 
chateau  at  Bussy  is  to-day  very  much  in  the 
state  in  which  its  master  left  it.  He  boasts  in 
his  letters  of  having  made  it  "  one  of  the  finest 
mansions  in  France;"  we  think  the  praise 
somewhat  excessive.  It  is  a  rather  heavy 
structure  overlooking  a  monotonous  little  val- 
ley surrounded  by  heights  which  are  not 
mountains,  and  washed  by  watercourses  which 
are  not  rivers.  In  front  of  the  chateau  stretches 
a  park  set  with  fine  trees  ;  but  it  is  so  broken 
into  hill  and  dale  that  it  is  impossible  to  obtain 
a  complete  view  of  it.  On  the  other  side  a 
rather  shabby  lawn,  with  narrow,  straight  walks 
and  a  scanty  rivulet,  forms  a  terrace  afford- 
ing a  prospect  of  a  featureless,  commonplace 
horizon.  Some  houses  of  the  wretched  village 
cluster  about  the  foot  of  the  chateau  ;  the  rest 
are  scattered  in  the  plain,  or  rise  in  tiers  upon 
the  hillside,  so  that  one  really  finds  here  neither 
the  stern  beauty  of  solitude  nor  the  bustle  and 
stir  of  life.  But  Bussy  was  no  friend  of  Nature. 
I  fancy  that  the  view  to  be  obtained  from  the 


The  Woman.  63 

windows  of  his  chateau  was  a  matter  of  indif- 
ference to  him,  and  that  he  took  walks  in  his 
park  solely  for  h}'gicnic  purposes. 

What  could  an  exile,  who  could  not  endure 
the  country,  do  to  fill  the  vacancy  of  the  long 
days  passed  in  such  a  wilderness?  He  tells 
us  more  than  once  in  his  correspondence.  As 
soon  as  he  reached  Burgundy,  after  his  release 
from  the  Bastille,  he  summoned  from  Dijon, 
even  from  Paris,  artists  of  all  kinds,  especially 
architects  and  painters,  and  set  about  decorat- 
ing his  drawing-rooms.  The  drawing-room, — 
this  is  the  place  people  liked  best  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  the  place  which  recalled  life's 
happiest  hours  spent  in  delightful  companion- 
ship with  the  amiable  and  the  witty.  Accord- 
ingly, in  order  to  please  this  worldly  society, 
Le  Notre  made  of  the  Park  of  Versailles  a 
kind  of  reproduction  of  the  palace  itself,  with 
long  galleries  vaulted  by  overarching  trees, 
and  leading  to  cabinets"  and  halls  of  verdure. 
Bussy's  fashion  of  decorating  his  house  reveals 
his  then  condition  of  mind,  and  what  it  was 
that  absorbed  all  his  thoughts :  he  was  feeding 
upon  memories  and  regrets;  he  was  dreaming 
only  of  that  seductive  world  from  which  he 
was  banished  ;  and  he  was  determined,  cost 
what  it  might,  to  have  an  image  of  that  world 
before  his  eyes.     Several  rooms  are  decorated 


64  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

with  emblems  and  allegorical  designs,  almost 
all  relating  to  his  mistress,  the  beautiful  Mar- 
chioness de  Montglas.  Bussy,  who  taxed  her 
with  forsaking  him  in  his  fall,  who  had  her  de- 
picted as  lighter  than  the  breeze,  fickler  than 
the  moon,  flightier  than  the  swallow,  shows  by 
the  animosity  with  which  he  kept  her  in  view 
how  much  he  still  loved  her.  He  gathered  in 
one  of  his  salons  the  portraits  of  the  great  cap- 
tains of  his  time,  and  unceremoniously  thrust 
himself  into  their  company.  Elsewhere  he 
placed  portraits  of  all  the  women  with  whom 
he  had  been  intimate,  with  inscriptions  which 
are  often  epigrams.  Doubtless  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  not  wholly  shut  out  from  Paris 
and  Versailles  when  he  found  himself  sur- 
rounded by  all  these  familiar  faces,  recalling  to 
him  his  happier  years.  As  he  looked  upon 
them  he  became  the  willing  victim  of  illusion, 
and  for  the  moment  forgot  his  exile. 

Another  link  between  himself  and  the  world 
from  which  he  was  banished,  was  his  corre- 
spondence. Every  post  brought  him  letters 
from  the  few  whose  friendship  he  had  kept. 
These  were  for  the  most  part  women,  who,  little 
as  he  had  spared  them,  proved  more  faithful 
than  the  men  ;  besides  these,  there  were  a  few 
of  that  small  class  of  courtiers  who  remember 
their  fallen  companions,  and  some  collegiate 


The  Woman,  65 

and  academic  wits  much  honored  to  be  in  cor- 
respondence with  a  great  lord  who  prided  him- 
self upon  his  love  of  letters.  These  letters 
were  impatiently  awaited.  They  brought  him 
some  far-off  echo  of  the  noises  of  the  world 
toward  which  his  ear  was  continually  bent. 
But  if  their  perusal  satisfied  his  curiosity,  what 
cruel  wounds  must  they  have  inflicted  upon  his 
pride !  How  galling  to  hear  of  the  successes 
of  his  former  rivals,  —  men  who  had  served  with 
him  and  under  him,  to  whom  he  felt  himself 
superior,  and  who  were  one  after  another  suc- 
ceeding to  the  highest  dignities  of  the  State ! 
What  mortification  to  run  through  those  lists 
of  marshals  of  France,  those  promotions  of 
Knights  of  the  Order,  in  which  his  own  name 
was  missing !  And  when  they  told  him  the 
story  of  battles  won,  of  provinces  conquered, 
of  coalitions  defeated,  how  exasperating  to  a 
vain  man,  who  deemed  himself  born  to  com- 
mand armies  and  to  gain  victories,  to  behold 
all  these  great  things  achieved  without  his 
help  !  It  is  easy  to  fancy  the  pangs  that  then 
rent  Bossy's  breast,  and  one  feels  ready  to 
pardon  the  desperate  efforts  he  made  to  regain 
favor. 


66  Madame  de  Sevt^ne. 


£>' 


VI. 

Among  the  faithful  correspondents  who  un- 
dertook to  send  Bussy  the  news  of  Paris  and 
of  the  court,  Madame  de  Sevigne  must  be 
placed  in  the  front  rank.  She  liked  to  write 
to  him  and  to  receive  his  letters ;  she  found 
that  her  cousin's  mind  aroused  and  kindled 
her  own ;  his  sharp  wit  stimulated  her ;  and  in 
replying  to  him,  she  enjoyed  one  of  the  de- 
lights to  which  we  are  most  alive,  —  that  of 
being  satisfied  with  ourselves. 

Nevertheless  she  had  friends  whom  she  loved 
better,  and  to  whom  she  abandoned  herself 
more  unreservedly.  I  might  mention  many  of 
whom  she  is  continually  talking  ;  but,  mindful 
of  necessary  limits,  I  shall  content  myself  with 
speaking  only  of  the  best  known,  of  those  who 
held  the  largest  place  in  her  life,  —  first  of 
Madame  de  Lafayette  and  of  La  Rochefoucauld, 
next  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Coulanges. 

In  1693,  when  Madame  de  Lafayette  died, 
Madame  de  Sevigne  said  that  their  friendship 
had  lasted  more  than  forty  years.  She  there- 
fore placed  its  beginning  at  about  the  time 
when  Madame  de  La  Vergne,  the  mother  of 
Madame  de  Lafayette,  married  in  second  nup- 
tials the  Chevalier  Renaud  de  Sevign^.     Then 


The  Woman.  ^9 

it  was  that  the  daughter  of  Madame  de^  ^"^" 
Vergne  and  Henri  de  Sevigne's  young  w'l^^^^ 
between  whom  there  was  no  great  disparity 
of  age  and  tastes,  felt  drawn  to  one  another. 
Of  those  remote  and  early  years  we  know 
little,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  of  them. 
When  Madame  de  Sevigne's  correspondence 
with  her  daughter  begins,  Madame  de  Lafay- 
ette has  been  long  a  widow,  and  has  but  re- 
cently united  herself  with  the  Duke  de  La, 
Rochefoucauld  in  that  close  intimacy  which 
gave  the  world  so  much  to  talk  about. 

What  can  have  been  the  nature  of  this  inti- 
macy? The  question  is  very  indiscreet,  I  ac- 
knowledge, yet  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  making 
some  answer.  The  question  was  raised  by  the 
malicious  curiosity  of  their  contemporaries. 
Madame  de  Scudery  wrote  to  Bussy :  "  M.  de 
La  Rochefoucauld  is  living  very  decorously 
with  Madame  de  Lafayette  ;  nothing  more  than 
friendship  is  apparent.  In  short,  the  fear  of 
the  Lord  on  the  part  of  each,  and  perhaps  also 
policy,  have  clipped  Cupid's  wings.  She  is 
his  favorite  and  his  best  friend."  But  the  dis- 
trustful Bussy  suspected  something  more,  "  For 
my  part,"  he  replied,  "  I  still  maintain  there 
is  love  between  them."  Perhaps  it  would  not 
be  wise  to  attempt  to  canvass  this  delicate  sub- 
ject too  closely.     If,  as  Sainte-Beuve  thinks, 


Madame  de  Sevigne. 

r  union  began  in  1665,  La  Rochefoucauld 
..as  then  fifty-two  years  old  and  Madame  de 
Lafayette  thirty-two.  Strictly  speaking,  such 
an  age  permits  any  supposition ;  but  it  must 
be  noted  that  La  Rochefoucauld  had  been 
worn  out  by  a  long  life  of  fruitless  agitation 
and  disappointed  ambition.  As  to  Madame 
de  Lafayette,  she  had  certainly  been  animated 
and  gay  in  her  early  youth ;  time  had  been 
when,  amid  a  circle  of  trusty  friends,  she  had 
sometimes  thrown  off  constraint  and  emanci- 
pated herself.  Long  afterwards,  Madame  de 
Sevigne  recalled  this  to  her  daughter:  "De- 
spite her  discretion,  we  laiighed  and  had  our 
frolics;  do  you  recollect  it?"  But  discretion 
had  soon  carried  the  day ;  and  when  La  Roche- 
foucauld met  her  in  Madame  de  Sable's  salon, 
she  was,  notwithstanding  her  thirty  summers, 
a  mature  and  sober  woman.  I  fancy  that 
the  intimacy  must  have  grown  up  gradually. 
Neither  was  of  an  age  or  a  temperament  to 
feel  one  of  those  violent  and  inevitable  pas- 
sions born  at  first  sight.  He  doubtless  noted 
the  justice  of  the  reflections  made  by  this 
young  woman  ;  he  was  struck  with  her  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  with  her  firm, 
clear  judgments  of  men  and  events.  On  the 
other  hand,  we  may  believe  that  when  she  per- 
ceived the  impression  she  was  making  upon  so 


The  Woman.  69 

distinguished  a  man,  who  had  played  an  im- 
portant part  in    public  affairs,   she   was   very 
much  flattered.     At  the  outset,  therefore,  their 
alliance  was  largely  an  affair  of  the  intellect, 
but  the  heart  did  not  remain  a  stranger  to  it. 
M.  de   La    Rochefoucauld  was   not   born    for 
those  extreme  passions  in  which  the  chance  of 
his  romantic  adventures   had   at  one  time  in- 
volved him.     Madame  de    Sevigne  justly  re- 
marked of  him :   "  I  do  not  believe  he  has  ever 
been  what  is   called  a  lover,"     Not  until  the^ 
age  of  fifty-two  did  he  test  his  full  capacity  for 
love.     Although  his  life  had  been  a  very  full 
one,  Madame  de  Lafayette  opened  up  to  hi"i 
new  vistas.     She  kindled  within  him  a  temper- 
ate and  rational  affection,  —  the  only  kind  quite 
natural  to  them  both,  —  and  this  affection  bright- 
ened their  declining  years.     There  is,  after  all, 
much   charm    in   these    late,    stormless   loves, 
capable    as    they   are  of  the    sober    splendor 
and  mild  warmth  of  an  autumnal  sunset.     "  I 
think,"  said  Madame  de  Sevigne,  "  that  noth- 
ing can  surpass  the  strength  of  such  an  alli- 
ance."     From   that   time    they   never   parted. 
Gourville,  who  detests  Madame  de  Lafayette, 
hints  that  she  took  entire    possession   of  La 
Rochefoucauld.     It  is  certain  that  she  was  by 
nature   imperious  and  commanding,  and  that 
she   put  her  friends   more   or  less   under  the 


70  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

yoke;  but  in  this  case  the  yoke  was  unresist- 
ingly accepted.  There  are  thraldoms  to  which 
one  is  happy  to  yield ;  moreover,  we  know 
that  Madame  de  Lafayette  exerted  her  power 
only  to  soften  and  to  reconcile  to  mankind  the 
bitter  moralist  who  had  just  composed  his 
"  Maxims."  It  was  in  the  height  of  this  union 
•  that  "The  Princess  of  Cleves"  appeared  under 
the  name  of  Segrais.  Everybody  knew  that 
this  name  concealed  that  of  Madame  de  Lafay- 
ette, and  many  suspected  that  La  Rochefou- 
cauld must  have  had  some  hand  in  it.  Here 
is  what  the  pious  Madame  de  Scudery  wrote 
t.o  Bussy :  "  M.  de  La  Rochefoucauld  and 
MaG:\me  de  Lafayette  have  made  a  romance 
dealing  with  the  gallant  adventures  of  the 
jCourt  of  Henry  the  Second ;  they  are  not  of 
Ian  age  to  occupy  themselves  otherwise  to- 
gether," It  is  impossible  to  ascertain  at  this 
day  whether  La  Rochefoucauld  helped  Ma- 
dame de  Lafayette  with  "  The  Princess  of 
Cleves,"  or  what  part  of  the  work  may  belong 
to'  him.  All  that  can  be  said  is,  that  his  union 
with  the  author  seems  to  have  left  some  trace 
upon  this  charming  work,  and  that  while  read- 
ing it  one  guesses  the  mental  condition  of  the 
writer.  It  seems  pervaded  with  the  tranquil- 
lity of  a  heart  happy  in  a  requited  affection; 
from  the  peace  she  has  attained  she  looks  with 


The  Woman.  71 

kindly  and  tender  sympathy  upon  the  unhappy 
passions  of  others,  and  sheds  over  the  objects 
of  her  dreams  that  mild  and  equable  light 
which  now  shines  about  her  own  pathway. 

Less  happy  were  the  following  years.     Age 
crept  upon  them,  with  its  inevitable  ailments.^ 
La  Rochefoucauld  was  pinned  to  his  arm-chair  ^ 
by  the  gout.     Madame  de  Lafayette,  constantly 
at  death's  door,  could   form   no   plan  for  the 
morrow.     She  relates  that,  having  set  out  one 
day  for  Chantilly,  where  she  was  expcci-ed  b'*'. 
the  Prince,  the  fever  overtook  her  on  the  ^v^,,|^ 
Neuf,  and  she  could  go  no  farther.     This  con- 
dition rendered   them  the   more   necessary  to 
each  other.     As  their  ill  health  forced  them  to 
shun  society,  they  arranged   more   than  ever 
to  be  mutually  sufficient.     Madame  de  Sevign6, 
who  saw  them  more  regularly  after  they  w'ere 
more   alone  and   more  gloomy,  tells  us  "that 
nothing  could  be  compared  to  the  confidence 
and  the  charm  of  their  friendship." 

To  pass  from  Madame  de  Lafayette  and  La 
Rochefoucauld  to  Monsieur  and  Madame  de 
Coulangcs,  is  going  from  one  extreme  to  the 
other.  The  latter  are  no  less  gay,  bustling, 
animated,  than  the  former  are  serious  and 
grave.  This  charming  pair  are  the  embodi- 
ment of  movement  and  life.  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  have    more  wit  than   they,  —  a  wit  all 


72  Madame  de  Sevigne, 

sparkle  and  flash,  always  armed  and  ready 
with  a  repartee.  In  the  conversation  both  of 
the  husband  and  of  the  wife,  epigrams  fly  off 
hke  sparks.  Tediousness  cannot  exist  in  their 
presence ;  accordingly  every  one  loves  them, 
seeks  them,  invites  them,  and  desires  to  keep 
them.  Nevertheless,  on  looking  closer  one 
perceives  that  they  are  not  on  the  best  foot- 
ing together.  When  alone,  these  laughers 
grow  grave,  these  inexhaustible  talkers  find 
"•••othing  to  say  to  each  other;  so  they  stay 
cauld  rTine  as  little  as  possible.  Having  no  child 
to  detain  them,  they  are  almost  unoccupied : 
the  wife  takes  little  interest  in  her  household ; 
the  husband,  who  has  been  successively  coun- 
sellor and  referendary  in  the  Parliament  of 
Paris,  excuses  himself  as  much  as  possible 
from  sitting.  They  are  always  in  the  street 
or  on  the  road.  She  frequents  the  Parisian 
salons  and  makes  visits  to  Versailles,  where 
she  has  great  relations  of  whom  she  is  rather 
proud,  —  the  Louvois,  who  are  of  her  family ; 
the  Duchess  de  Richelieu  ;  above  all,  Madame 
de  Maintenon,  who  much  relishes  the  vi^it  of 
Madame  de  Coulanges.  He  permits  himself 
longer  escapades ;  he  goes  to  pass  whole  sea- 
sons in  the  castles  of  great  lords,  whom  he 
amuses.  On  one  occasion  he  goes  to  Ger- 
many with  M.  de  Lyonne;   later  he  accompa- 


The  Woman.  73 

nies  the  Duke  de  Chaulnes  in  his  embassy  to 
Rome,  is  present  at  two  conclaves,  and  re- 
mains in  Italy  more  than  two  years.  At  the 
time  when  Madame  de  Sevigne's  correspond- 
ence acquaints  us  somewhat  closely  with  them, 
they  have  been  married  for  seven  or  eight  years, 
and  their  relation  is  already  what  it  will  be  to 
the  end :  each  goes  his  own  way,  and  both 
have  got  thoroughly  used  to  this  separation 
under  the  same  roof.  Was  this  brought  about 
without  a  struggle?  We  do  not  know;  but  I 
cannot  imagine  that  a  scandalous  scene  should 
ever  have  arisen  between  persons  so  well-bred, 
so  hostile  to  clamor,  so  tolerant  by  nature.  It 
is  more  likely  that  when  they  found  less  pleas- 
ure in  living  together  they  quietly  withdrew, 
and  that,  the  separation  being  gradual,  there 
was  neither  rupture  nor  violence.  It  is  thus 
that  the  slow  cooling  of  a  liquid  in  a  vase  does 
not  burst  the  fragile  vessel.  But  how  came  it 
that  two  amiable  characters,  who  were  so  much 
alike,  did  not  suit  each  other  better?  Is  it  not 
that  they  were  too  much  alike?  If  contrary  na- 
tures arc  liable  to  jar,  perhaps  it  is  difficult  for 
those  who  are  too  much  alike  to  agree  per- 
fectly. It  is  better  that  between  persons  des- 
tined to  live  together  there  should  be  sufficient 
resemblance,  in  order  that  each  may  understand 
the  other ;  and  sufficient  diffi;rence,  in  order  that 


74  Madame  de  S'evigne. 

each  may  feel  the  need  of  the  other  to  make 
good  his  deficiencies.  Still,  it  remains  true 
that  in  this  rather  ill-assorted  union  mutual 
esteem  had  survived ;  between  this  husband 
and  this  wife,  who  were  so  only  in  name,  there 
even  remained  a  residue  of  friendship  and  con- 
fidence. Perhaps,  therefore,  it  may  be  inferred 
that  there  never  was  a  very  strong  aff"ection 
between  them ;  for,  according  to  Bussy's  saga- 
cious remark,  people  pass  from  violent  love  to 
hatred  rather  than  to  friendship.  In  a  very 
serious  illness  which  Madame  de  Coulanges 
suffered,  people  were  touched  to  see  the  hus- 
band show  marks  of  the  deepest  grief,  while 
the  wife,  who  was  thought  to  be  dying,  con- 
cerned herself  only  for  her  husband.  It  is  true 
that  when  she  was  out  of  danger  everything 
began  again  as  usual.  This  mixture  of  recip- 
rocal attentions  and  mutual  indifference,  of 
complete  separation  at  home  and  a  decorous 
appearance  in  public,  forms  a  very  curious 
contrast;  does  it  not  seem  like  a  glimpse  in 
advance  of  a  fashionable  household  of  the 
eighteenth  century? 

To  the  similarity  an  important  feature  is, 
however,  lacking.  This  easy  husband  who 
shuns  his  home  is  not  known  to  have  a  mis- 
tress. He  seems  not  to  have  formed  one  of 
those  irregular  unions  that  take  the  place  of 


The  Woma7i.  75 

family  life.  He  loves  above  all  things  good 
cheer,  highly-seasoned  conversation,  boon  com- 
panionship. Wherever  he  is  received  he  makes'^ 
himself  at  home.  Agreeable  at  first,  he  soon 
becomes  necessary ;  but  while  amusing  others 
he  amuses  himself,  and  this  existence,  which 
would  not  be  to  the  liking  of  every  one,  fully 
satisfies  him.  He  had,  indeed,  some  crosses, 
—  who  can  wholly  avoid  them?  Once  he  was 
induced  to  apply  for  an  important  situation  in 
the  treasury,  and  though  he  was  a  relative  of 
Louvois,  he  did  not  get  it.  Despite  his  philos- 
ophy he  felt  this  mishap ;  but  his  vexation  was 
brief,  and  he  consoled  himself,  in  his  usual  way, 
with  songs :  — 

"  Fortune,  thou  hast  given  me  words, 
But  hast  not  been  ruthless  to  me  ;  " 

then  he  threw  himself  more  than  ever  into  his 
life  of  merry  vagabondage.  "  What  a  delight- 
ful life,"  wrote  Madame  de  Sevigne  to  him, 
"  and  how  gently  fortune  has  dealt  with  you ! 
Always  loved,  always  esteemed,  always  bring- 
ing with  you  joy  and  pleasure,  always  a  favor-y 
ite,  and  infatuated  with  some  great  friend,  —  a 
duke,  a  prince,  a  pope  (I  add  the  Holy  Father 
for  the  rarity  of  it),  —  always  in  health,  never  a 
burden  to  any  one,  no  business,  no  ambition; 
but  above  all,  what  an  advantage  not  to  grow 


76  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

old  !  This  is  the  height  of  happiness.  Cer- 
tain reckonings  of  times  and  years  touch  you 
indeed  a  Httle,  but  only  distantly,  and  without 
the  terror  which  they  bring  to  some  persons  I 
know  of;  all  this  is  for  your  neighbor,  and  you 
are  not  subject  even  to  the  uneasiness  of  an 
ordinary  person  who  sees  a  fire  in  his  neigh- 
borhood. In  fine,  having  thought  it  all  over, 
I  conclude  that  you  are  the  happiest  man  in 
the  world." 

And  Madame  de  Coulanges,  —  was  she  con- 
tent with  the  life  that  satisfied  her  husband? 
How  did  she  accept  the  isolation  in  which  he 
left  her?  Was  there  no  one  to  take  advantage 
of  the  opportunity  to  fill  the  vacant  place? 
Saint-Simon,  who  is  not  suspected  of  flattery, 
tells  us  that  she  was  always  virtuous ;  and  we 
may  believe  him.  Not  that  she  lacked  wor- 
shippers willing  to  console  her  for  the  ab- 
sences of  her  husband.  Madame  de  Sevigne 
mentions  three  who  paid  assiduous  court  to 
her.  First,  there  was  the  Abbe  Tetu,  —  a  wit 
among  the  ladies,  with  whom  he  was  a  great 
favorite,  and  a  bone  of  contention  between 
the  salons.  He  made  a  regular  division  of  his 
time.  During  the  fine  season  he  disappeared, 
going  to  keep  company  with  the  charming  Ab- 
bess de  Fontevrault.  With  the  bad  weather  he 
returned  to  take  up  his  winter-quarters,  as  he 


The  Woman,  'jj 

said,  at  the  house  of  Madame  de  Coulangcs. 
Although   often    imperious    and    jealous,    the 
Abbe  Tetu  had   the  advantage  of   not  com- 
promising the  ladies  to  whom  he  devoted  him-  ^ 
self;   they  knew  that  all  his  passion  was  spent 
in  tender  conversations,  and  that  he  would  not 
go  beyond  the  madrigal.     The  next  suitor  was 
still  less  dangerous.     This  was  the  Count  de 
Brancas,  —  an  original  over  whom  Madame  de 
S^vigne  often   makes   merry.     He  united  the 
roles  of  love    and    piety,  and   endeavored   to 
please   Madame  de  Coulanges  only  in  order 
to  aid  her  in  seeking  her  soul's  salvation.     She 
preferred  to  seek  it  alone,  and  liked  to  laugh 
at  this  mystical  wooer,  who  in  his  declarations 
mingled  theology  with  gallantry,  like  Tartuffe. 
There  was  more  to  be  feared  from  the  third, 
—  the  Marquis  de  La  Trousse,  cousin  of  Cou- 
langes, and   one    of  the   king's   best   officers.^ 
Of  his  cousin's  wife  he  was  desperately  enam- 
oured, and  when  he   could  come  to  Paris  he 
scarcely  left  her  side.     But  she  treated  him  no 
better  than  she  did  the  others,     "  He  is  always 
devoted,"  said  Madame  de  Sevignc,  "  and  she 
is    always    hard,    contemptuous,    and    bitter,"^ 
The  control  of  these  three  lovers  was  divert- 
ing to  Madame   de  Coulanges,  who    enjoyed 
setting  them   at  loggerheads.     What  is  more 
singular  is,  that  the  husband  was  also  amused 


y8  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

by  this,  and  that  he  took  pleasure  in  noting 
the  progress  and  the  vicissitudes  of  each,  and 
in  celebrating  them  in  his  songs :  — 

"  Brancas  flees  Tetu,  priest-pursued  ; 
La  Trousse  by  some  charm  is  subdued, 
He  alone  fulfils  all  her  desires. 
Her  husband  quires,  — 
Tetu  from  Brancas  takes  the  palm, 
La  Trousse  is  subdued  by  some  charm. 

Here  is  a  husband  of  rare  disinterestedness 
and  tolerance !  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  not 
far  wrong  in  saying,  at  the  moment  when  he 
was  setting  out  for  Rome:  "His  wife  has  no 
especial  reason  to  wish  him  to  take  this  jour- 
ney, for  he  does  not  in  the  least  inconvenience 
her." 

For  the  rest,  it  is  probable  that  the  hus- 
band's confidence  was  not  betrayed.  Madame 
de  Coulanges  amused  herself  in  sportive  flirta- 
tion, but,  as  we  have  seen,  Saint-Simon  affirms 
that  she  went  no  farther.  There  were  mo- 
ments, perhaps,  when  she  regretted  this  re- 
serve ;  it  is  possible  that  beyond  these  futile 
intimacies  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  some 
deeper  affection  that  would  have  brought  her 
the  experience  of  unknown  sentiments.  In 
one  of  her  letters  there  is  a  phrase  that  gives 
food  for  reflection.  It  is  with  reference  to  the 
Marquis  de  Villeroy,  the   "  charming,"  as  he 


The  Woman.  79 

was  called,  who  was  desperately  in  love  with 
a  woman  that  jilted  him.  "  Every  one  thinks 
him,"  she  said,  "  an  object  of  pity ;  to  me  he 
is  an  object  of  envy."  It  seems  to  me  that 
to  one  who  reads  between  the  lines  these 
words  disclose  a  shade  of  regret.  Certainly, 
however,  her  disposition  did  not  draw  her  to- 
ward the  vortex  of  the  deep  passions  ;  during 
the  dangerous  years  her  safety  lay  in  the  levity 
of  her  character.  Toward  the  last  she  became 
serious  and  devout.  We  have  a  letter  wherein 
she  takes  her  husband  to  task  for  his  truant 
disposition  and  his  incorrigible  boyishness. 
"  For  my  part,"  she  declares,  "  I  acknowledge 
that  I  think  myself  little  mindful  of  the  world. 
By  my  age  I  find  myself  no  longer  suited  to 
society;  I  am  free,  thank  God,  from  all  the 
ties  that  hold  us  to  the  world  in  our  own 
despite ;  I  have  seen  all  that  it  has  to  offer, 
and  I  have  no  longer  anything  but  my  old 
face  to  present  to  it,  —  nothing  new  either  to 
communicate  or  to  discov^er.  And  why  eter- 
nally renew  visits  and  trouble  ourselves  about 
occurrences  that  concern  us  not?  My  dear 
sir,  it  is  time  for  us  to  be  thinking  of  some- 
thing more  abiding." 

Madame  de  Lafayette  and  Madame  de  Cou- 


langes  were  Madame  de  Sevifinc's  best  friends 


^ 


'fc.^- 


Doubtless   she   may  sometimes  have  suffered 


8o  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

from  the  exacting  disposition  of  the  one,  and 
her  patience  was  often  tasked  by  the  levity  of 
the  other;  but  notwithstanding  their  foibles 
she  tenderly  loved  them  both.  Touching 
Madame  de  Lafayette  she  said,  "  Never  has 
there  been  the  least  cloud  upon  our  friend- 
ship ;  "  of  Madame  de  Coulanges  she  might 
have  said  the  same  thing.  On  the  other  hand, 
both  her  friends  felt  the  full  charm  and  solidity 
of  her  love.  Madame  de  Lafayette,  when  upon 
the  brink  of  death,  wrote  to  her :  "  Let  the  end 
come  when  God  will ;  I  am  resigned.  Believe, 
my  very  dear  friend,  that  you  are  the  one  per- 
son in  the  world  whom  I  have  most  truly 
loved."  Madame  de  Coulanges  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  survive  her,  and  she  felt  this  loss 
very  keenly.  When  apprised  of  her  death, 
Madame  de  Coulanges  wrote :  "  She  was  the 
last  of  my  friends;"  and  a  year  later:  "My 
grief  is  ever  fresh  at  seeing  her  no  more ;  too 
many  things  are  missing  at  Carnavalet  House  !  " 
What  an  honor  to  Madame  de  Sevigne  to  have 
won  the  equal  love  of  two  persons  of  such 
opposite  tempers !  This,  certainly,  is  what 
gives  us  the  best  opinion  of  her. 


PART   II. 

THE    WRITER. 
I. 

COUSIN  points  out  that  in  the  first  half  of 
the  seventeenth  century  letter-writing  be- 
came very  fashionable.  Letters,  with  portraits 
and  conversations,  take  up  much  space  in  the 
romances  of  the  period,  and  in  those  of  Mad- 
emoiselle de  Scudery  they  are  even  printed  in 
special  type  to  attract  the  eye.  This  fashion 
is  easily  understood.  A  fondness  for  self- 
revelation  and  self-display  is  a  very  common 
infirmity,  and  in  a  correspondence  this  is  what 
is  wanted.  Egotism  here  has  free  course  and 
is  perfectly  in  place;  what  may  be  a  defect 
elsewhere  becomes  a  necessity  here,  an  essen- 
tial feature  of  the  style.  People  like  to  write 
letters  because  they  can  be  as  egotistic  as  they 
please,  and  like  to  read  them  because  of  their 
delight  in  fathoming  the  souls  of  others.  It 
affords  great  pleasure  to  become  acquainted 
with  their  most  secret  thoughts,  especially 
when  they  would  not  have  them  known.  Thus 
6 


S2  Madame  de  Sevigne, 

it  is  that  the  epistolary  style  is  sure  to  please 
the  vain  and  inquisitive,  —  and  that  means 
almost  everybody. 

This,  doubtless,  is  why  Balzac  and  Voiture 
gave  to  their  chief  works  the  form  of  letters,  — 
though  unhappily  nothing  but  the  form.  If 
you  read  through  the  correspondence  of  Voi- 
ture, in  which  he  is  constantly  talking  of  him- 
self, when  you  have  done  you  will  not  know 
whence  he  came,  what  he  was  doing,  how  he 
was  entitled  to  be  received  into  the  society  in 
which  we  see  him  occupying  so  important  a 
place,  why  he  stays  in  Paris  and  why  he  leaves 
it,  or  what  he  is  about  in  those  distant  lands 
from  which  he  writes  so  many  letters  to  his 
friends.  He  never  makes  known  to  us  his  real 
sentiments.  He  belongs  to  a  society  in  which 
every  one  plays  a  part,  and  plays  it  consistently. 
The  cast  contains  the  rdles  of  the  lover,  the 
wag,  the  melancholy  man,  the  coquette,  the 
indifferent  woman,  the  haughty  lady.  What 
each  person  is  once  he  never  ceases  to  be,  or 
at  least  to  seem  to  be ;  and  whether  talking  or 
writing,  each  always  plays  his  part.  It  was  the 
understanding  that  Voiture  should  be  the  un- 
happy lover  of  the  cruel  Mademoiselle  Paulet, 
the  beautiful  lioness,  as  she  is  called ;  and  he 
regularly  performed  this  duty  while  he  made 
his  abode  at  the  Rambouillet  mansion.     Even 


The  Writer.  83 

foreign  travel  did  not  interrupt  his  attentions. 
From  Brussels,  Rome,  Madrid,  he  unweariedly 
continued  sending  her  the  insipid  compli- 
ments then  in  style.  One  day  he  wrote  her 
from  Ceuta:  "I  have  left  Europe,  and  have 
crossed  the  strait  which  bounds  it;  but  the  sea 
between  us  can  quench  none  of  my  passion  for 
you,  and  though  all  the  slaves  of  Christendom 
become  free  when  they  reach  this  shore,  I  am 
no  less  yours  for  all  that."  It  need  hardly  be 
said  that  he  does  not  believe  one  word  of  all 
these  fine  sentiments  which  he  utters  in  so 
candid  a  tone.  It  is  a  mere  social  amusement 
deceiving  no  one;  a  sort  of  literary  exercise 
that  may  seem  interesting,  but  in  which  there 
is  nothing  serious  or  sincere. 

Thus,  however  great  the  success  of  Voiture's 
letters,  it  would  seem  that  in  reading  them  it 
must  have  been  felt  that  there  was  something 
lacking.  Even  those  most  charmed  by  them 
would  doubtless  say  to  themselves  that  such 
compositions  would  be  much  more  charming 
still  if  they  were  real  letters  in  which  the  writer, 
sure  of  not  being  betrayed,  should  give  us  his 
confidence,  tell  us  his  feelings  and  his  thoughts, 
instead  of  expressing  conventional  sentiments, 
—  in  a  word,  disclose  his  real  self.  If,  more- 
over, such  a  person  chanced  to  write  with  tal- 
ent, if  by  a  natural  gift  he  associated  with  a 


84  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

fluent  pen  qualities  ordinarily  due  only  to  la- 
bor, there  would  remain  nothing  more  to  be 
desired.  That  the  intelligent  people  of  this 
time  had  such  an  ideal  of  a  perfect  correspond- 
ence, and  perceived  that  besides  the  letters  of 
Voiture,  so  much  read  and  admired,  there  were 
others  still  more  admirable,  uniting  the  merit 
of  sincerity  to  that  of  style,  is  proved  by  the 
fact  that  as  soon  as  Madame  de  Sevigne's  let- 
ters were  placed  in  their  hands  they  did  not 
hesitate;  they  recognized  at  once  that  here 
was  perfection.  Never,  perhaps,  has  public 
opinion  been  so  prompt  and  so  unanimous  in 
greeting  a  masterpiece.  When,  after  the  death 
of  Bussy-Rabutin,  his  daughter  had  his  cor- 
respondence published,  every  one  was  in  rap- 
tures over  the  letters  he  had  received  from  his 
cousin.  Bayle  was  so  charmed  by  them  that 
he  declared  "  this  woman  deserves  a  place 
among  the  famous  women  of  her  time."  About 
the  same  period  a  Jesuit  published  a  Latin 
poem  entitled  "  Ratio  Conscribendae  Epis- 
tolae,"  ^  in  which  he  proclaimed  that  Madame 
de  Sevigne  was  the  model  for  that  style  of 
composition,  and  that  she  wrote  with  such  ease 
"  that  one  of  her  letters  deserves  the  expendi- 
ture of  more  time  on  the  part  of  the  reader 
than  it  took  her  to  write  it." 

1  "  The  Best  Way  to  Write  a  Letter." 


The  Writer.  85 

This  Jesuit  seems  to  have  imagined  Madame 
de  Sevigne  as  dashing  off  her  letters  at  a  sit- 
ting, without  taking  pains  to  polish  and  cor- 
rect them ;  and,  indeed,  this  is  what  she  her- 
self gives  us  to  understand  when  she  tells  us 
that  she  lets  her  pen  run  on  and  gives  it  free 
rein.  Generally  her  word  has  been  believed ; 
but  there  are  cloubters  to  whom  such  a  method 
of  composing  masterpieces  has  seemed  suspi- 
cious. The  very  merit  of  her  letters  makes 
such  critics  suspect  that  they  cost  her  more 
labor  than  she  pretends.  The  winning  grace 
of  her  details,  the  ingenious  turn  given  to  her 
reflections,  her  charming  variety  in  the  repeti-' 
tion  of  the  same  thought,  her  clever  expression 
of  matters  pertaining  to  the  affections,  seem  to 
betray  art  and  labor.  "  So  much  ingenuity," 
it  has  been  said,  "  so  much  care,  was  probably 
not  expended  for  one  person  alone.  A  lady 
does  not  write  so  elaborately  to  her  daughter. 
Usually  she  keeps  for  her  family  her  ordinary 
every-day  wits,  and  is  seldom  very  fastidious 
except  for  strangers  and  the  public.  It  is  then 
for  these  that  Madame  de  Sevigne  wrote  under 
her  daughter's  name,  and  in  being  transmitted 
to  us  these  letters  have  only  reached  their  real 
address."  Let  us  find  what  truth  there  is  in 
this  opinion.  It  is  important  to  know,  if  only 
so  as  not  to  be  deceived. 


86  Madame  de  Seviene. 


^>' 


In  Madame  de  Sevigne's  correspondence 
there  are  distinctions  to  be  observed.  She 
does  not  write  in  the  same  way  to  all  her 
friends,  because  she  has  not  the  same  confi- 
dence in  them  all.  She  is  quite  aware  that 
some  of  them  do  not  keep  for  themselves  alone 
the  letters  they  receive.  From  Bussy,  for  in- 
stance, anything  may  be  expected.  Did  he 
not  one  day  take  the  liberty  to  let  the  king 
himself  into  the  secret  of  their  intimacy,  by 
sending  him  his  cousin's  letters  as  well  as  his 
own?  It  is  natural,  then,  that  in  writing  to 
Bussy  she  should  sometimes  be  constrained. 
Can  she  tell  what  will  become  of  what  she 
sends  him  in  confidence?  What  Bussy  often 
did  for  his  own  sake,  Coulanges  sometimes  did 
for  the  sake  of  Madame  de  Sevigne ;  the  ad- 
miration he  felt  for  her  wit  was  so  great  that 
he  could  not  keep  it  to  himself  This  she  sus- 
pected, and  so  is  tempted,  in  writing  to  him,  to 
be  a  little  dressy,  that  the  inquisitive  may  not 
surprise  her  unadorned.  It  ought  to  occasion 
no  surprise,  then,  if  there  is  in  the  first  case 
some  constraint,  and  in  the  second  something 
perhaps  a  little  studied ;  but  if  there  is,  it  does 
.not  last  long,  for  it  is  not  a  part  of  her  temper- 
ament long  to  retain  her  self-command.  Soon 
her  fancy  regains  control  and  hurries  her  away ; 
she  forgets  the  precautions  she  wished  to  take, 


The  Writer.  Sj 

she  surrenders  unconditionally;  and  she  does 
well,  for  she  is  never  more  charming. 

In  any  case,  if  the  thought  of  this  uncertain 
and  unknown  public  may  have  exercised  some 
slight  influence  over  her  when  she  wrote  to 
Coulanges  and  Bussy,  in  her  correspondence 
with  her  daughter,  at  least,  she  had  nothing 
at  all  to  fear.  Here  we  have  the  closest  inti- 
macy. All  that  is  in  the  heart  is  freely  uttered. 
What  it  would  have  been  dangerous  to  repeat 
is  related  with  perfect  confidence.  Private 
affairs  and  affairs  of  state,  the  neighborhood 
gossip,  the  most  scandalous  stories,  the  most 
compromising  revelations,  —  all  are  communi- 
cated. Madame  de  Grignan  did  not,  therefore, 
let  her  mother's  letters  get  abroad ;  and  if,  per- 
chance, she  read  an  extract  announcing  an 
important  bit  of  news,  she  tells  us  that  she 
took  great  care  that  no  one  should  be  able  to 
peep  over  her  shoulder  and  read  what  ought 
not  to  be  read.  Madame  de  Sevigne,  then, 
felt  sure  that  the  public  would  never  know  what 
she  said,  and  wrote  without  anxiety.  She  did 
not  take  pains  to  reflect,  to  be  on  her  guard, 
to  elaborate  a  style,  "  which  to  her  is  but  a 
tragic  buskin."  She  abandoned  herself  to  the 
stream  of  her  thoughts  and  feelings :  "  Do  you 
know  what  I  am  going  to  do?  Just  what  I 
have  done  hitherto.     I   always  begin  without 


88  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

knowing  what  the  end  will  be;  and,  ignorant 
whether  my  letter  will  be  long  or  short,  I  write 
as  much  as  my  pen  chooses;  it  has  full  sway." 
And  again  :  "  First,  my  love  to  M.  de  Grignan  ; 
I  greatly  wonder  at  him,  and  at  you  too,  my 
daughter,  for  being  so  fond  of  my  letters.  I 
am  always  astonished  at  the  kind  things  you 
say  of  them ;  they  pass  so  quickly  from  me 
that  I  never  perceive  their  merits,  nor  their 
shortcomings  either."  She  must  surely  have 
written  very  rapidly  to  have  written  so  much. 
With  all  the  demands  of  society  upon  her,  if 
she  had  aspired  to  make  her  letters  eloquent 
performances  she  never  would  have  found 
time  to  write  so  many;  at  all  events,  she  would 
have  made  them  shorter.  Nothing  savors 
more  of  improvisation  than  that  wealth  of 
^  details,  that  fulness  and  abundance  of  recital, 
which  are  her  most  delightful  qualities,  though 
she  sometimes  reproached  herself  with  them 
as  faults.  When  she  thought  of  the  weary  task 
her  daughter  would  have  in  reading  "  all  this 
gossip,"  she  was  vexed  with  herself,  asked  her 
daughter's  pardon,  and  promised  faithfully  to 
be  henceforth  more  abstemious.  But  when 
once  she  began  chatting  with  her  daughter, 
all  these  good  resolutions  were  forgotten,  and 
she  knew  not  where  to  stop.  "  I  prose  away," 
she  said,  "  with  an  ease  that  is  fatal  to  you." 


The  Writer.  89 


n. 

Here,  then,  is  a  young,  lively,  volatile  woman, 
going  much  into  society  and  much  absorbed 
in  pleasure,  who  has  never  had  the  least  idea 
of  composing  literary  works ;  and  yet,  as  soon 
as  she  puts  pen  to  paper,  in  letters  addressed 
to  but  one  person,  without  a  thought  of  the 
public  or  of  posing  before  it,  she  writes  with 
the  confidence  and  exactitude  of  a  professional 
author;  she  knows  how  to  express  her  thoughts 
and  feelings ;  she  finds  the  fitting  word ;  she 
avoids  the  hesitation,  the  repetition,  the  obscu- 
rity, from  which  those  who  make  a  business  of 
writing  escape  with  such  difficulty;  in  short, 
without  seeking  it,  almost  without  knowing  it,' 
from  the  very  first  she  is  perfect.  How  has 
this  happened  ;  and  by  what  miracle  has  she  so 
soon  acquired  what  demands  of  others  so  much 
study  and  so  many  efforts? 

The  answer  first  occurring  to  the  mind  is, 
that  she  had  received  special  gifts  from  Heaven, 
and  that  it  was  her  nature  to  write  well;  but 
Nature  needs  aid  from  labor.  We  do  not  find 
that  those  who  are  born  artists  know  music 
before  they  learn  it,  nor  that  they  play  well  on 
a.i  instrument  the  first  time  they  touch  it.  In 
every  art  there    is   something   in   the   knack, 


go  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

which  must  first  be  learned,  and  the  art  of 
writing  is  no  exception ;  on  the  contrary,  there 
is  hardly  a  more  difficult  one.  "  It  is  no  small 
matter,"  says  Cousin,  precisely  in  respect  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne,  "  to  express  one's  senti- 
ments and  ideas  in  a  natural  order,  in  their 
true  perspective,  in  terms  neither  too  studied 
nor  too  vulgar,  neither  exaggerating  nor  en- 
feebling the  thought."  These  delicate  quali- 
ties presuppose  some  study  and  some  practice. 
I  do  not  think  there  ever  was  a  writer  who 
became  such  without  a  certain  apprentice- 
ship ;  and  if  it  seems  to  us  that  some  men  of 
genius  needed  no  training,  this  is  because  we 
do  not  perceive  in  what  way  they  were  trained. 
We  are  too  prone  to  fancy  that  the  only  edu- 
cation which  can  train  the  mind  is  that  given 
in  the  schools  according  to  ordinary  methods ; 
in  reality,  there  are  a  thousand  means  of  edu 
cation  far  different  one  from  another.  Somt 
need  a  teacher,  others  are  self-taught.  Som^; 
require  solitude,  shutting  themselves  up  iri 
their  studies,  living  among  their  reflections  and 
their  books ;  others,  on  the  contrary,  never 
retire  to  meditate,  and  seem  quite  to  abandon 
themselves  to  the  whirl  of  social  enjoyment, 
while,  without  appearing  to  reflect,  they  lose 
nothing  of  what  they  see  and  hear.  All  things 
serve  as  lessons  to  those  who  know  how  to 


The  Writer.  91 

profit  by  them.  We  can  learn  from  the  skilful 
and  from  the  awkward,  from  the  literate  and 
from  the  illiterate,  by  working  and  by  doing 
nothing;  and  as  there  are  many  ways  of  learn- 
ing that  escape  our  notice,  it  always  seems 
rash  to  assert  that  any  one  knows  a  thing  with- 
out having  learned  it. 

In  any  case,  we  may  be  sure  that  Madame 
de  Sevigne  had  learned  how  to  write ;  and  it 
is  interesting  to  know  how  she  received  her 
training. 

In  the  first  place,  she  had  as  teachers  in  her 
youth  two  of  the  most  learned  men  of  that' 
epoch,  Chapelain  and  Menage.  Chapelain 
must  have  been  the  first  to  give  her  lessons. 
We  know  that  he  was  attached  to  the  Cou- 
langes  family,  and  it  is  natural  that  he  should 
have  been  called  upon  to  perfect  the  education 
of  Mademoiselle  de  Chantal,  while  he  had 
charge  of  that  of  her  cousin  M.  de  La  Trousse. 
Chapelain's  reputation  is  against  him,  and  he 
never  recovered  from  the  attacks  of  Boileau. 
For  that  matter,  he  criticised  himself  with 
much  severity.  While  those  around  him  were" 
unanimous  in  sounding  the  praises  of  his  un- 
finished epic,  which  was  expected  to  be  the 
glory  of  France,  he  spoke  of  it  to  his  friends 
with  humility.  "As  to  my  '  Maid  of  Orleans,' " 
he  wrote  to  Chief-Justice  Maynard,  "  so  coarse 


92  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

and  countrified  is  she  yet,  that  there  is  risk  of 
her  not  leaving  my  study  till  I  do,  and  that 
toward  twilight,  that  her  defects  may  be  less 
apparent.  I  am  waiting  with  great  impatience 
till  our  good  fortune  may  bring  you  to  this 
court,  in  order  to  beg  you  that  she  may  re- 
ceive a  little  combing  down  at  your  hands." 
Again,  he  says  to  Balzac :  *'  Believe  me,  sir, 
I  am  of  small  importance,  and  what  I  am  com- 
posing of  still  less.  The  public,  perforce,  and 
contrary  to  my  intention,  wishes  to  regard  me 
as  a  great  poet;  and,  even  if  I  were  not  quite 
the  opposite,  I  should  still  prefer  not  to  be 
looked  at  from  that  point  of  view.  I  have,  it 
seems  to  me,  earned  a  title  to  something  bet- 
ter, something  more  rightfully  my  own."  This 
reminds  one  ofBoileau's  saying:  "  Why  does 
he  not  write  in  prose?"  Alas!  still  worse 
might  have  been  said ;  for  while  Chapelain 
is  a  bad  poet,  it  cannot  be  claimed  that  he  is 
a  good  prose  writer.  The  two  volumes  of  his 
letters  just  given  to  the  public  are  frightfully 
dull.  His  pleasantries,  especially,  are  like  the 
gambols  of  a  hippopotamus.  One  day  when 
he  wished  to  write  a  gallant  letter  to  Madame 
de  Grignan  with  regard  to  a  visit  she  was 
about  making  to  the  fountain  at  Vaucluse, 
he  said  to  her:  "Though  I  am  not  such 
a  tender  rimer  as  Petrarch,  I  am  still  a  rimer 


The  Writer.  93 

as  well  as  he,  and  our  common  vocation  might 
give  me  access  to  him  in  order  to  induce 
him  to  perform  part  of  the  duty  he  owes  to  a 
person  of  your  rank.  As  for  his  mistress,  I 
should  not  despair  of  making  her  understand 
that  she  would  run  no  risk  by  giving  you  a 
hearty  welcome,  and  that  the  attachment  you 
have  to  the  Count  de  Grignan  would  not  allow 
you  to  display  all  your  charms  at  Vaucluse, 
to  entice  her  lover  away  from  her,"  This  is 
not  precisely  the  style  of  Madame  de  Sevigne ; 
it  is  evident  that  Chapelain  did  not  teach  her 
the  art  of  writing  !  But  he  had  a  good  knowl- 
edge of  Latin,  Italian,  and  Spanish,  and  did 
her  a  great  service  by  teaching  her  to  read 
Vergil  "  in  the  majesty  of  his  text,"  to  under- 
stand the  "  Jerusalem  Delivered "  and  the 
"  Orlando  Furioso."  One  day  when  she  had 
consulted  him  about  some  slight  mannerisms 
in  Tasso,  he  replied  that  "  love  of  frippery 
and  point  induced  him  to  adopt  squinting 
and  obscure  modes  of  expression,  but  that 
for  a  stagger  we  do  not  cut  a  courser's  ham- 
strings." The  remark  is  a  just  one;  but  what  a 
wretched  style  !  Chapelain  was  very  proud  of 
his  pupil,  and  his  pupil  was  on  the  whole  very 
grateful  to  her  teacher;  but  gratitude  could 
not  prevent  the  bright  young  girl  from  per- 
ceiving what  was  ridiculous  in  the  professor. 


94  Madame  de  Sevigne, 

When  she  saw  him  coming  in  with  his  vulgar 
look  and  shabby  attire,  I  fancy  that  the 
thought  of  "  Chapelain  Dishevelled  "  ^  some- 
times flitted  across  her  mind,  and  that  she 
could  not  forbear  a  smile.  So  she  calls  him 
Goodman  Chapelain,  or  Old  Chapelain.  His 
pompous,  pedantic  airs  did  not  escape  her 
notice.  When  announcing  to  her  daughter 
that  he  had  been  smitten  with  apoplexy  and 
rendered  speechless,  she  said :  "  He  confesses 
to  the  priest  by  squeezing  his  hand,  and  sits  in 
his  chair  like  a  statue.  Thus  God  confounds 
the  pride  of  philosophers!"  It  must  be  con- 
fessed that  this  is  but  a  slender  eulogy  for  the 
dying  man. 

f,  I  suppose  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  more 
indebted  to  Menage,  and  more  attached  to 
him.  He  v/as  much  younger  than  Chapelain, 
besides  being  more  a  man  of  the  world.  We 
have  seen  that  he  courted  his  pupil,  and  that 
she  scarcely  resented  it.  As  none  of  the 
copies  of  verses  he  addressed  to  her  bears  her 
maiden  name,  it  may  be  believed  that  he  did 
not  know  her  intimately  until  after  her  mar- 
riage. Her  regular  education  was  already 
finished,  and  she  had  only  to  perfect  it  with 
Manage.     It   is   probable   that  she  was   very 

1  "  Chapelain  Decoiffe  "  ("  Chapelain  Bereft  of  his  Wig  "), 
a  witty  burlesque  by  Boileau.  —  Tr. 


The  Writer.  95 

glad  to  be   acquainted    with   a  man  who   en- 
joyed great  renown,  and  whose  name  Balzac 
and    Salmasius    mentioned  only  with  respect. 
Menage,  to  be  sure,  is  not  a  Scaliger,  nor  even 
a  Casaubon ;   his   learning  is   neither  so  deep 
nor  so  sound  as  that  of  the  great  scholars  of 
the  preceding  century.     He  himself  acknowl- 
edged (at  least  the  saying  is  attributed  to  him 
in  the  "Menagiana")  that  he  did  not  under- 
stand Pindar  well  enough  to  enjoy  it,  and  that 
he    never  read   any  Greek   author   without    a 
translation.     His   Latin,  though   so   clear  and 
elegant,  is  not  always  correct,  and  his  adver- 
saries have  pointed  out  some  quite  gross  blun- 
ders.    Nevertheless,   he    was    a   learned    man 
whose  knowledge  had  a  wide  range.     He  pub- 
lished   poems    in    French,    Latin,   Greek,   and 
Italian.     To  be  sure,  they  are  often  sad  stuff, 
and    he    himself   acknowledged    this    frankly 
enough,  though  he  did  not  like  to  be  told  of 
it.    Yet  among  them  are  some  written  in  rather 
an  easy  style,  especially  those  in  Latin ;   and 
then,  too,  it  is  a  rare  accomplishment  to  make 
verses    in    four    languages.       Unhappily,    Me- 
nage's pretensions  were  even  greater  than  his 
deserts.     He   inhabited    two    different   worlds, 
—  that  of  fashion  and  that  of  learning, — and 
wished    to    please    them    both.      These     two 
kinds  of  ambition  are  inconsistent.     He  who 


g6  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

would  be  too  agreeable  both  to  the  learned 
and  to  the  fashionable,  runs  the  risk  of  dis- 
pleasing both  classes ;  scholars  tax  him  with 
levity,  and  worldlings  vote  him  heavy.  Thus 
^,it  happened  that  toward  the  last  the  reputa- 
tion of  Menage  declined.  As  his  vanity  did 
not  quite  blind  him,  he  was  so  unfortunate 
as  to  perceive  this,  and  said  sadly  to  his 
friends,  "  I  have  gone  out  of  fashion."  Some 
vexatious  disputes  that  he  was  imprudent 
enough  to  bring  on  turned  the  laugh  against 
him.  Spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  appear  the 
child  of  his  age,  he  had  remained  in  many 
respects  a  scholar  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
Like  Scaliger  and  Justus  Lipsius,  he  had  a 
quarrelsome  disposition,  and  was  wont  to  heap 
abuse  upon  those  who  ventured  to  differ  with 
him.  He  raised  noisy  disputes  for  causes  that 
seem  trivial  to  those  unfamiliar  with  the 
points  in  question ;  he  launched  thick  volumes 
against  Baillet,  d'Aubignac,  and  Bouhours;  he 
abused  Cotin,  who  responded  by  a  dull  pam- 
phlet entitled  the  "  Menagerie."  This  quarrel 
was  disastrous  to  both;  for  Moliere,  thinking 
it  comic,  took  occasion  to  render  it  immortal. 
Who  does  not  know  the  famous  scene  of  Tris- 
sotin  and  Vadius  in  "The  Learned  Women"? 
Trissotin  is  Cotin,  there  can  be  no  mistake. 
Vadius    is    not   so    clearly   marked.      Menage 


The  Writer.  97 

showed  his  good  sense  by  not  recognizing  his 
Hkeness,  but  the  pubhc  was  not  deceived. 
Madame  de  Sevignd  needed,  however,  no  Mo- 
here  to  make  her  perceive  the  ridiculous  side" 
of  her  teacher;  she  perceived  it  unaided.  The 
pedantic  disputes  in  which  he  revelled  ap- 
peared to  her  very  foolish.  Referring  to  the 
ridiculous  wrangle  between  him  and  Father 
Bouhours,  this  cruel  sally  escaped  her:  "They 
tell  one  another  the  truth,  and  often  this  truth 
is  an  insult."  "  Behold,"  says  M.  Mesnard  very 
justly,  "what  Menage  gained  by  teaching  her 
to  read  Tacitus  :  '  Flagitia  invicem  objectavere, 
neuter  falso.'  "  ^ 

Though    she    could    not    help    occasionally 
making  a  little  fun  of  Chapelain  and  Menage,  ^ 
she  acknowledged  fully  what  she  owed  them. 
More  than  once  she  spoke  with   gratitude  of 
"  the   good  teachers  she  had   in  her  youth." 
These  good  teachers  taught  her  French  in  two_ 
ways,  —  first  by  making  her  acquainted  with 
Latin,  Italian,  Spanish,  since  there  is  nothing 
better   than    these    comparisons   with    foreign 
tongues  to  make  us  masters  of  our  own ;   and, 
moreover,  they  taught  her  French  directly  by 
the  manner  in  which  each  of  them  studied  and 
used  it.     Both  were  eminent  grammarians,  and  y^ 

1  "  By  turns  they  flung  the  taunt  of  shameful  deeds,  and 
neither  falsely." 

7 


98         1^      Madame  de  Sevigne. 

took  an  important  part  in  the  work  then  going 
forward  of  cleansing  the  French  idiom,  of  mak- 
ing it  purer,  more  precise,  more  regular,  in 
order  to  prepare  it  for  the  great  literary  epoch 
then  beginning.  This  work  may  be  said  to 
have  gone  on  around  Madame  de  Sevigne ; 
she  was  familiarly  acquainted  with  almost  all 
of  those  in  charge  of  it ;  they  were  her  friends 
and  her  teachers.  As  even  the  world  of  rank 
and  fashion  had  acquired  a  taste  for  these  re- 
searches, she  could  hear  the  pupils  of  Vaugelas, 
in  the  society  she  frequented,  discussing  the 
meaning  and  standing  of  various  expressions, 
condemning  those  they  considered  ill-con- 
structed, and  giving  others  their  final  form.  The 
women  were  not  merely  witnesses  of  these 
debates,  but  were  sometimes  appealed  to  as 
judges.  The  gallant  Father  Bouhours  thought 
a  great  deal  of  their  support,  and,  hoping  to 
array  them  on  his  side,  loaded  them  with  eu- 
logy: "There  is  nothing  more  correct,  more 
proper,  more  natural  than  the  language  of 
most  Frenchwomen.  The  words  they  use, 
however  common,  seem  quite  new,  and  made 
on  purpose  for  what  they  say;  so  that  if  Na- 
ture herself  wished  to  speak,  I  believe  she 
would  borrow  their  tongue."  Perhaps  when 
you  reflect  that  women  were  present  at  these 
learned  discussions  and  took  part  in  them,  you 


The  Writer.  99 

will  be  tempted  at  first  to  feel  some  anxiety 
about  the  effect  on  themselves,  especially  if  you 
remember  Philaminte,  Armande,  and  Belise,^ 
so  tiresome,  so  pedantic,  so  infatuated  with 
grammar,  — 

"  Grammar,  whose  sovereign  law  all  men  obey, 
And  who  o'er  mouarchs  can  enforce  her  sway." 

But  Philaminte  and  Belise  are  foolish  women 
who  would  have  made  as  bad  a  use  of  anything 
else  as  they  did  of  learning  and  grammar. 
Their  example  does  not  prove  that  intelligent 
and  sensible  women  may  not  derive  great 
profit  from  these  studies.  When  the  inves- 
tigation of  the  origin  of  words,  of  the  changes 
they  have  undergone,  and  the  determination  of 
their  true  meaning,  goes  on  in  their  presence, 
they  retain  some  traces  of  it;  and  without 
special  study,  simply  by  listening  to  what  is 
said,  they  gain  the  habit  of  making  use  of  the 
right  word  in  the  right  place.  Above  all,  let 
it  not  be  thought  that  this  surrounding  in- 
fluence of  grammar  can  embarrass  those  sub- 
jected to  it,  as  has  been  asserted,  and  impair 
their  freedom  of  expression  by  giving  them 
too  much  concern  about  purity.  I  think,  on 
the  contrary,  that,  far  from  enslaving  them,  it 

^  Names  of  leading  characters  in  Moliere's  "  Learned  Wo- 
men," from  which  comes  also  the  ensuing  quotation.  —  Tr. 


I  oo  Madatne  de  Sevi^ne. 


<*> 


delivers  them  from  that  most  painful  of  ser- 
vitudes, —  bondage  to  the  letter.  What  women 
are  most  lacking  in,  even  when  they  write  well, 
is  originality  of  expression.  As  they  have  in 
general  not  received  the  more  thorough  edu- 
cation open  to  men,  they  know  words  only  by 
their  daily  use ;  accordingly,  they  venture  to 
employ  them  only  in  the  way  that  people  or- 
dinarily use  them.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
who  knows  the  origin  of  his  words,  and  who  is 
consequently  not  restricted  to  their  ordinary 
acceptation,  can  employ  them  with  more  free- 
dom, since  he  perceives  just  how  far  he  may 
turn  them  from  their  usual  meaning  and  place 
them  in  a  new  setting.  Then  it  may  be  said 
that  he  is  their  master  and  that  they  obey  him  ; 
or  rather  he  need  no  more  trouble  his  head 
about  them,  for  they  present  themselves  with- 
out his  seeking,  and  stand  ready  to  express 
his  thought  in  all  the  variety  of  its  shades  and 
in  the  fulness  of  its  meaning.  If  the  lessons 
of  Menage  and  Chapelain  could  render  to 
Madame  de  Sevigne  such  service  as  this,  she 
had  good  reason  to  be  grateful  to  them. 

To  this  education  received  from  her  teach- 
ers must  be  added  what  she  derived  from  her 
reading.  At  all  times  she  was  "  a  great  de- 
vourer  of  books."  Everything  interested  her. 
She  was  very  fond  of  romances,  as  we  have 


The  Writer.  loi 

seen,  but  more  serious  works  did  not  affright 
her.  Her  especial  delight  was  in  history,  even 
that  of  the  Turks,  in  which  she  found  pashas  I 
with  many  Christian  virtues.  Her  inquiring 
mind  found  pleasure  in  everything,  from  Vergil 
to  Father  Maimbourg,  spite  of  the  latter's  vil- 
lanous  style ;  and  from  Nicole  who  made  her 
quake  with  fear,  to  Rabelais  who  made  her  die 
of  laughter.  It  was  especially  during  her  leis- 
ure intervals  at  the  Rochers  estate  that  she 
resorted  to  all  kinds  of  reading  to  fill  up  the 
day:  "We  still  have  perfect  weather;  we  read 
a  great  deal,  and  I  find  what  pleasure  there  is 
in  having  no  memory,  for  Corneille's  plays  and 
the  works  of  Despreaux,  Sarazin,  Voiture,  all 
pass  again  in  review  before  me  without  weary- 
ing me,  —  quite  the  reverse.  We  sometimes 
dip  into  Plutarch's  '  Morals,'  which  are  admi- 
rable, or  into  Arnauld's  '  Prejudices'  or  the 
replies  of  the  ministers,  or  skim  the  Koran  a 
little  if  the  fancy  takes  us ;  in  short,  there  is 
no  region  we  do  not  explore."  But  when  so 
many  regions  are  explored  all  at  once,  none 
can  be  thoroughly  known.  Of  this,  Madame 
de  Sevigne  was  well  aware ;  she  never  posed 
as  a  scholar.  Speaking  of  Madame  de  Ker- 
man,  her  neighbor  in  Brittany,  who  resembled 
her  in  being  a  great  reader,  she  said:  "She 
knows  a  little  of  everything,  and  as  I  have  a 


I02  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

like  smattering,  our  superficial  areas  very  well 
correspond."  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  better 
that  a  woman  should  thus  range  through  all 
authors,  from  the  "  Cleopatra"  to  the  Koran, 
rather  than  have  too  profound  a  knowledge  of 
but  one.  As  a  result  she  may  be  superficial, 
but  at  least  she  will  not  be  pedantic. 

As  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  always  pleased 
with  the  education  she  had  received  or  ac- 
quired, she  also  desired  passionately  that  her 
grandchildren  should  receive  a  similar  train- 
ing. She  wanted  them  early  taken  in  hand, 
and  wished  nothing  to  be  neglected  in  the 
way  of  mental  culture.  "  It  is  presuming  too 
much,"  said  she,  "  to  expect  everything  from 
natural  gifts  unaided."  When  the  young  Mar- 
quis de  Grignan  returned  from  Philipsburg 
with  the  scratch  that  made  her  so  proud  of 
him,  she  tried  to  persuade  him  to  improve 
his  leisure  time  by  reading  some  good  books; 
but  he  was  too  busy  going  into  society,  and 
dancing  with  the  Misses  Castelnau,  to  listen 
to  his  grandmother's  advice.  "  His  young 
blood  makes  such  a  din,"  said  she,  "  that  he 
does  not  hear."  She  had  better  success  with 
her  grand-daughter.  Nothing  is  more  touch- 
ing than  the  pains  she  took  in  order  that  this 
girl  might  be  well  trained.  She  watched  over 
her  from  afar;   and  as  soon  as  any  little  differ- 


/ 

/ 


The  Writer.  103 

ence  arose  between  mother  and  daughter,  she 
hastened  to  interpose.  "  So  Pauhne  is  not 
perfect;  so  much  the  better.  You  will  enjoy 
making  her  over."  She  tried  especially  to 
prevent  Madame  de  Grignan  from  sending 
her  daughter,  in  a  moment  of  anger,  back  to 
the  nuns  of  Aubenas,  with  whom  the  girl  had 
been  kept  for  several  years.  "  Do  not  be- 
lieve," said  the  grandmother,  "  that  a  convent 
can  mend  her  education,  either  with  regard  to 
religion,  of  which  the  good  sisters  know  little, 
or  in  other  matters."  The  mother  will  under- 
stand much  better  how  to  correct  the  little 
outbursts  of  her  distrustful  temper,  but  it  must 
be  done  with  gentleness.  "  Guide  her  gently; 
her  desire  to  please  you  will  do  more  than 
scolding ;  try  to  talk  reasonably  to  her  with- 
out scolding  or  humiliating  her,  for  that  rouses 
opposition;  and  —  my  word  for  it  —  you  will 
work  a  little  miracle."  Her  delight  was  great 
when  she  learned  that  Pauline  was  very  fond  of 
reading.  "  What  a  pleasant,  what  a  fortunate 
trait!  She  is  beyond  the  reach  of  tedium  and 
idleness,  —  two  horrid  pests."  Then  she  desires 
them  not  to  give  her  a  distaste  for  reading  by 
drawing  the  reins  too  tight,  and  is  afraid  they 
restrict  her  in  the  choice  of  books.  "  I  prefer 
her  to  devour  bad  books  rather  than  not  like 
to  read."     She  is  vexed  with  the  scruples  of  a 


1 04  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

foolish  confessor,  who  is  not  willing  to  sanc- 
tion the  reading  of  theatrical  pieces.  "  I  don't 
think  you  have  the  heart  to  obey  Father  Lan- 
terne.  Would  you  not  allow  Pauline,  who  has 
so  much  intelligence,  the  pleasure  of  making 
some  use  of  it  by  reading  the  fine  plays  of 
Corneille,  —  'Polyeucte,'  '  Cinna,'  and  the  rest? 
To  have  no  trace  of  piety  except  this  restric- 
tion, without  being  led  to  it  by  the  grace  of 
God,  seems  like  nakedness  in  shoes."  As  to 
novels,  there  was  a  difference  of  opinion.  "In- 
stances occur,"  she  said  to  her  daughter,  "  both 
of  good  and  of  bad  effects  from  this  kind  of 
reading.  You  dislike  them,  and  have  got  on 
admirably;  I  was  fond  of  them,  and  might 
have  turned  out  worse.  All  is  wholesome  to 
the  healthy,  as  you  say.  Wishing  to  defend 
my  taste,  I  used  to  say  that  a  young  man 
would  become  generous  and  brave  by  con- 
templating my  heroes,  and  that  a  young  girl 
would  become  virtuous  and  discreet  by  read- 
ing '  Cleopatra.'  Once  in  a  while  there  is  one 
who  takes  things  just  the  wrong  way;  but 
such  an  one  would  perhaps  turn  out  no  better 
if  he  did  not  know  how  to  read.  When  the 
mind  is  well  balanced,  it  is  not  easily  spoiled." 
There  are  works,  however,  which  she  prefers 
to  novels.  Above  all,  she  desired  Pauline  to 
acquire  a  taste  for  historical  works.     "If  her 


The  Writer.  105 

nose  has  to  be  pinched  to  make  her  swallow 
them,  I  pity  her."  Then  come  authors  still 
more  serious:  "Has  she  tried  Lucian?  Is 
she  equal  to  some  of  the  'Minor  Epistles'? 
.  .  .  Regarding  ethical  works,  as  she  would 
not  make  so  good  a  use  of  them  as  you,  I 
should  not  wish  her  to  put  her  little  nose 
either  into  Montaigne,  or  Charron,  or  any 
of  that  kind ;  it  is  too  early  yet.  The  best 
ethics  for  her  years  is  that  taught  in  good 
conversation,  in  fables,  in  histoiies,  by  exam- 
ples ;   and  this,  I  think,  is  enough." 

This  reading  she  recommends  to  her  grand- 
daughter is  the  same  she  herself  pursued,  in 
her  youth,  with  so  much  profit.  She  speaks 
of  it  with  all  the  effusiveness  of  gratitude  ; 
she  is  conscious  of  all  she  owes  to  it.  By 
reading,  one  becomes  accustomed  to  reflect; 
by  reading,  one  learns  to  write ;  "  and  it  is 
such  a  delightful  accomplishment  to  know 
how   to  write  what  you  think !  " 


III. 


Our  education  is  not  the  work  of  our  teach- 
ers alone ;  it  is  carried  on  also  by  the  society 
we  frequent  and  the  people  with  whom  we  are 
connected.      No    one    escapes    altogether   the 


io6  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

influence  of  social  environment;  and  Madame 
de  Sevigne  must  have  felt  it  more  than  others. 
We  shall  see  with  what  ease  she  adopted  in 
her  maturity  the  opinions  of  those  about 
her,  and  how  quickly  she  was  affected  by 
their  sentiments.  This  characteristic  must 
have  been  still  more  marked  in  her  youth,  at 
an  age  when  all  have  fewer  settled  ideas  of 
their  own,  and  are  more  accessible  to  the  ideas 
of  others. 

At  first,  as  we  know,  she  belonged  to  the 
Rambouillet  coterie,  and  her  place  among 
them  was  so  well  assured  that  Somaize  has  put 
her  portrait  in  his  "  Dictionary  of  Precieuses."  ^ 
No  one  could  pass  through  such  a  society  with 
impunity;  and  so  some  stern  critics,  convinced 
that  she  must  have  been  injured  by  it,  have 
sought  to  find  traces  of  affectation  in  her  cor- 
respondence. If  there  are  any  such  traces 
they  are  certainly  not  numerous.  The  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne  that  we  know  must  have 
appropriated  the  good  qualities  of  the  coterie 
rather  than  its  bad  ones.  It  was  easy  enough 
for  her  to  avoid  its  defects.  By  her  hearty 
temperament,  her  sturdy  good  sense,  the  plain- 

1  The  pricicuses  were  French  ladies  who  aimed  to  encour- 
age a  higher  standard  of  purity  and  taste,  both  in  manners 
and  in  speech,  than  that  prevalent  in  the  France  of  their 
time,  —  about  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century. —  Tr. 


The  Writer.  107 

ncss  and  candor  of  her  mind,  and  by  her  relish 
for  extremely  free  language  and  merry  talk, 
she  was  the  opposite  of  a  pri^cieuse.  Let  us 
not  forget,  moreover,  that  she  was  only  nine- 
teen when  Julie  d'Angennes,  the  daughter  of 
Madame  dc  Rambouillct,  married  M.  de  Mon^ 
tausier,  and  that  from  this  time  on  the  coterie 
began  to  scatter.  Madame  de  Sevigne  could 
have  known  it  only  in  its  decline,  when  its  im- 
portance was  already  much  diminished.  This, 
then,  was  not  the  place  where  she  completed 
her  intellectual  training. 

Probably  she  owed  more  to  the  circles  which 
gathered  up  what  was  left  of  the  Rambouillet 
society,  and  which  endeavored  to  keep  up  its 
traditions.  She  was  very  much  appreciated  in 
these  circles;  and  as  early  as  166  r  one  of  her  ad- 
mirers speaks  of  the  "  high  and  just  renown  that 
her  merit  gives  her  in  society."  These  circles, 
we  know,  were  much  occupied  with  literature; 
their  members  liked  to  talk  of  recent  poems 
and  of  new  books ;  authors  greatly  desired  to 
please  them,  and  made  sacrifices  to  deserve 
their  applause.  They  accordingly  had  some 
influence  on  the  literature  of  the  period;  and  if 
we  wish  to  know  the  special  trend  of  this  in- 
fluence, the  theatre,  faithful  mirror  of  society, 
will  show  us.  It  is  the  period  of  the  transi- 
tion from   Corneille  to  Racine.     People    were 


io8  Madame  de  Seviene 


<b' 


gradually  losing  their  taste  for  the  ideal  heroism 
and  magnanimity  in  fashion  since  "  The  Cid ;  " 
and  instead  of  those  inequalities  of  style,  those 
haughty  colloquialisms,  those  coarse  touches 
which  were  not  displeasing  to  less  polished 
spectators,  they  required  more  delicacy  of  por- 
traiture, colors  better  blended,  more  scrupulous 
correctness,  sustained  nobility,  dignity,  ele- 
gance. Moreover,  the  idiom  is  no  longer  quite 
the  same.  Were  I  not  reluctant  to  establish  too 
abrupt  divisions  in  what  took  place  gradually 
and  by  insensible  transitions,  I  should  say  that 
a  very  different  kind  of  French  then  succeeded 
the  French  of  Descartes  and  Balzac.  Their 
language  seems  the  work  of  scholars,  is  formed 
on  the  model  of  Latin  oratory,  and  has  as  its 
special  characteristics,  copiousness  and  majesty. 
The  later  French,  written  and  spoken  in  the 
second  half  of  the  century,  continually  pro- 
gressing in  refinement  and  grace  from  Pascal 
to  La  Bruyere,  and  ever  becoming  nimbler, 
more  animated,  and  more  buoyant,  —  the 
language  with  which  the  next  century  armed 
itself  for  its  battles,  —  seems  rather  to  have 
been  formed  and  fashioned  in  the  conversations 
of  men  and  women  of  the  world.  The  literary 
men  of  this  epoch  recognize  the  drawing-room 
even  more  as  their  school  of  instruction  than 
as  their  means  of  diversion.     Voiture  appears 


The  Writer.  109 

to  be  only  a  sort  of  secretary  to  the  witty  peo- 
ple who  admit  him  to  their  society.  "  You 
see,"  he  says,  "  how  well  I  know  how  to  make 
use  of  the  fine  sayings  I  hear."  Menage  re- 
lates that  M.  de  Varillas  said  to  him  one  day 
that  of  ten  things  he  knew,  he  had  learned 
nine  in  conversation;  "and  I,"  adds  Menage, 
"could  say  about  the  same  thing." 

These  are  not  merely  polite  phrases.  I 
think  it  could  be  proved  by  examples  that 
Voiture  and  Menage  told  the  truth,  and  that 
society  was  very  instructive  to  its  votaries.  As 
the  century  grows  older,  people  possessed  of 
no  other  education  than  that  derived  from 
good  company  become  more  exacting,  more 
fastidious  in  their  mode  of  expression,  and 
gain  more  and  more  the  habit  of  writing  well. 
If  we  go  back  to  the  period  of  Louis  XIII.  and 
of  the  Fronde,  we  find  that  the  great  ladies  of 
that  time,  Madame  de  Hautefort,  Aladame  de 
Longueville,  Madame  de  Maure,  Madame  de 
Sable,  had  certainly  very  exalted  sentiments 
and  very  elegant  manners ;  it  is  likely  that 
they  talked  well,  but  it  is  certain  that  they 
wrote  ill.  Their  sentences  are  heavy,  lumber- 
ing, parenthetical,  full  of  vulgar  phrases  and 
trite  expressions.  To  read  their  letters  through 
requires  a  devotion  that  is  blind  to  their  short- 
comings.    Madame  de  Longueville,  writing  to 


I  lo  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

inform  Madame  de  Sable  of  the  death  of  her 
confessor,  M.  Singlin,  the  famous  spiritual  di- 
rector of  the  Port  Royal  nuns,  thus  concludes 
her  letter:  "In  truth  I  am  quite  touched  by- 
it  ;  for  besides  the  obligation  I  felt  to  this  holy 
man  for  his  charity  towards  me,  behold  me 
again  plunged  into  the  same  perplexity  as 
before  getting  him,  —  that  is,  being  in  need  of 
some  one  and  not  knowing  whom  to  get.  I 
pray  you  to  pray  earnestly  to  God  for  me. 
I  do  not  doubt  that  you  are  touched  by  it 
too,  and  that  besides,  the  touch  of  friendship 
and  of  need,  you  are  also  touched  by  seeing 
death  in  one  of  your  friends,  which  is  as  it 
were  to  see  it  in  one's  self"  Twenty  years 
later,  people  no  longer  wrote  thus.  I  will  not, 
in  order  to  prove  my  point,  contrast  with  this 
crude  note  the  letters  of  Madame  de  S6vign6. 
Success  thus  gained  would  be  too  cheap ;  be- 
sides, it  might  be  urged  that  she  w^as  a  woman 
of  exceptional  genius,  that  her  talent  belonged 
to  her  alone,  and  that  her  example  gives  us  no 
assurance  as  to  others.  Rather  let  us  select 
from  among  her  correspondents  second-rate 
persons  of  but  slight  reputation,  who  will  rep- 
resent better  the  common  standard. 

There  was  a  provincial  lady,  a  young  Breton 
girl,  so  timid  and  embarrassed  that  Madame  de 
S6vign6  had  not  at  first  expected  much  of  her, 


The  Writer.  1 1 1 

though  she  became  the  wife  of  Charles  de 
Sevign6.  We  have  some  of  her  letters,  not 
masterpieces  like  those  of  her  mother-in-law, 
but  still  correct  in  expression  and  easy  in  man- 
ner. Writing  to  her  sister-in-law,  Madame  de 
Grignan,  she  alludes  pleasantly  to  jests  that 
had  been  made  concerning  her  short  stature 
and  puny  appearance.  "  I  wish  to  beg  your 
son,"  she  says,  "  no  longer  to  call  me  aunt;  I 
am  so  small  and  so  delicate  that  I  am  only  his 
cousin,  at  most.  Madame  de  Sevigne's  consti- 
tution is  not  at  all  like  mine;  she  is  tall  and 
strong,  and  I  take  such  care  of  her  as  would 
make  you  jealous.  I  confess  to  you,  however, 
that  this  care  involves  no  constraint ;  I  let  her 
walk  in  the  woods  alone  with  her  books ;  she 
plunges  into  them  as  naturally  as  the  weasel 
into  the  jaws  of  the  toad.  ...  I  am  enrap- 
tured, my  dear  sister,  to  hear  from  you  that 
Madame  de  Sevigne  loves  me ;  I  have  good 
taste  enough  to  know  the  value  of  her  affec- 
tion, and  to  return  her  love  with  all  my  heart." 
Madame  de  Sevigne  rightly  thought  what  her 
daughter-in-law  wrote  "  very  good,"  for  it  is 
written  in  easy  and  fluent  language  which  ex- 
presses well  the  meaning.  At  another  time 
she  happened  to  insert  in  one  of  her  letters 
some  words  of  her  grandson,  the  Marquis  de 
Grignan,  who  had  just  returned  from  his  first 


1 1 2  Madame  de  Sevio-ne. 


^3 


campaign.  She  is  in  the  act  of  sending  her 
daughter,  as  usual,  the  news  of  the  city  and 
court,  when  she  breaks  off  with :  "  Why,  here 
is  the  Marquis  returning  from  court!  I  had 
begun  to  sing,  — 

'  Will  the  hero  I  'm  waiting  for  never  return  ?' 

but  here  he  is  now  with  my  pen,  which  I  sur- 
render to  him."  And  it  must  be  acknowledged 
that  the  young  officer  of  sixteen  makes  no  awk- 
ward use  of  this  formidable  pen.  Note  how 
he  relates  to  his  mother  what  he  has  done: 
"  I  come  from  Versailles,  Madame,  where  I 
went  last  Sunday.  First  I  called  at  the  house 
of  the  Marshal  de  Lorges  to  ask  him  to  pre- 
sent me  to  the  king;  this  he  promised  to 
do,  and  made  an  appointment  with  me  at  the 
door  of  Madame  de  Maintenon's  rooms,  that 
I  might  salute  the  king  as  he  came  out.  So  I 
saluted  him ;  whereupon  he  stopped  and  gave 
me  a  nod  and  a  smile.  The  next  day  I  paid 
my  respects  to  his  Highness  the  Dauphin,  my 
Lady  the  Dauphiness,  my  Lord  the  king's 
brother,  my  Lady  his  wife,  and  the  princes  of 
the  blood,  at  their  apartments,  and  was  every- 
where well  received.  I  then  went  to  the  house 
of  M.  de  Montausier  and  remained  there  until 
the  play.  They  acted  '  Andromaque,'  a  piece 
to  me  altogether  new.    Imagine,  Madame,  how 


The  Writer.  113 

much  I  enjoyed  it."     He  goes  on  relating  his 
happy  fortunes  in  this  hvely  manner,  and  ends 
with :   "  This,  IMadame,  is  an  exact  account  of 
what  took  place  at  Versailles.     Permit  me,  as 
I  look  at  your  portrait,  to  sigh  that  I  cannot 
throw  myself  at  the  feet  of  the  original,  kiss 
both   her  hands,    and    aspire    to    one    of    her 
cheeks."     It    is    easy  to    see  that   this  young 
Marquis  has  just  been  hearing  the  fashionable 
wits.     Since  his  return  from  the  army  he  has 
been  constantly  in  good   society,  and  repeats 
to  his    mother  the    gallantries   there    uttered. 
His  letter  is  none  the  less  easy  and  agreeable, 
and  bears  little  resemblance  to  what  persons 
like    him   wrote    some   twenty   years    earlier. 
This  is  not  because  he  has  studied  much.     We 
know,  on  the  contrary,  that  his  education  had 
been  at  the  outset  very  much  neglected,  be- 
ginning late  and  ending   so  early  that  at   fif- 
teen he  was  a  soldier,  and  off  for  Germany  with 
the  army  of  his  Highness  the  Dauphin.     His 
grandmother  would    have   had   him   make   up 
his  deficiencies  during  his  leisure  hours ;   but 
we  have  just  seen  that  she  could  not  give  him 
a   taste  for   literature.     Fortunately  he   loved 
society,  and  commerce  with  it  was  enough  to 
give  him  a  certain  politeness  of  manner  and 
ease    of  style  of  which    his    letter    bears   the 
trace. 


1 1 4  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

How  much  did  Madame  de  Sevigne  owe 
to  this  society  in  which  she  passed  her  Hfe? 
This  is  hard  to  determine  exactly,  but  we 
may  be  sure  that  she  was  indebted  to  it  for 
something. 


IV. 

We  have  seen  that  Madame  de  Sevign6  was 
prepared  to  write  well  by  her  excellent  educa- 

'  tion,  by  her  reading,  and  by  association  with 
the  most  distinguished  persons  in  Paris  and  at 
the  court.  She  knew  her  mother-tongue,  and 
spoke  it  wonderfully  well.  In  that  society  where 
intelligent  women  were  met  with  at  every  step, 
she  passed  for  one  of  the  most  intelligent  and 
cultivated  ;  her  repartees  were  quoted,  her 
decisions  appealed  to  as  authority.  At  the 
same  time  she  had  the  good  fortune  to  witness 

>-the  blooming  of  a  great  literature.  In  her 
youth,  she  read  the  "  Provincial  Letters  "  when 
first  they  were  furtively  circulated ;  later  on, 
she  witnessed  the  birth  of  Moliere's  first  com- 
edies, Racine's  first  tragedies,  La  Fontaine's 
first  fables;  she  heard  Mascaron,  Bossuet,  and 
Bourdaloue;  she  chatted  familiarly  with  Retz 
and  La  Rochefoucauld.  With  her  great  intel- 
ligence, and  her  keen  delight  in  all  the  beau- 
tics  of  literary  works,  though  retaining  a  secret 


The  Writer.  115 

preference  for  what  she  admired  in  youth,  she 
does  not  refuse  to  enjoy  the  more  recent  mas- 
terpieces; she  understands  all,  profits  by  all.Nv 
assimilates  all.  When  the  time  comes  for  her 
soul  to  be  tried  and  stirred  to  its  depths,  all 
these  gathered  treasures  will  be  clearly  seen. 
We  may  be  sure  that  she  will  know  how  to 
express  her  thoughts  and  feelings. 

Such  a  time  for  her  was  the  occasion  of  her 
daughter's  departure.  To  be  sure,  she  had 
before  this  shown  herself  a  clever  woman  who 
knew  how  to  write  very  agreeable  letters,  and 
how  to  acquit  herself  in  affairs  of  delicacy 
with  great  skill.  She  had  even  approached 
eloquence  when  she  had  to  defend  herself 
against  the  cunning  and  impertinence  of 
Bussy.  But  all  this  was  comparatively  noth- 
ing; to  bring  out  her  real  strength  she  must 
be  touched  in  her  inmost  affections.  Her  pas- 
sion then  breaks  forth  from  her  heart,  and  it 
maybe  said  that  her  whole  talent  flows  out 
with  her  tears. 

Her  daughter  has  left  her,  and  has  gone 
to  join  her  husband  at  the  world's  end,  away 
in  Provence.  Before  reaching  this  distant 
land,  from  which  she  will  return  only  at 
rare  intervals,  she  must  be  exposed  to  dan- 
gers which  then  used  to  make  the  bravest 
tremble,  —  the  declivity  of  Tarare,  the   Rhone, 


1 1 6  Madaine  de  Sevigne. 

the  Bridge  of  St.  Esprit,  and  what  not.  The 
mother  thinks  of  aU  and  dreads  all  long  be- 
forehand. She  has  continuall}'  before  her 
eyes  quagmires,  precipices,  horses  running 
away,  boats  sinking.  Returning  to  her  empty 
house,  where  all  reminds  her  of  the  departed 
one,  she  takes  her  pen  and  relieves  her  full 
heart  by  writing :  "  My  grief  would  indeed  be 
commonplace  if  I  could  portray  it  to  you,  so 
I  shall  not  undertake  it.  It  is  vain  for  me  to 
seek  the  dear  daughter  whom  I  no  longer  find, 
and  every  step  of  her  horses  takes  her  farther 
from  me.  I  went  to  Ste.  Marie  ceaselessly 
weeping,  and  dying  with  grief;  it  seemed  as  if 
my  heart  and  soul  were  torn  from  me ;  and,  in 
truth,  what  a  cruel  parting !  I  asked  the  privi- 
lege of  being  left  alone ;  they  took  me  to 
Madame  du  Housset's  room  and  made  a  fire 
for  me ;  Agnes  looked  at  me  without  speak- 
ing, —  this  being  our  bargain  ;  I  stayed  there 
till  five  o'clock,  sobbing  continually.  Every 
thought  stabbed  me  with  grief."  Three  days 
later  her  daughter's  first  letters  are  brought 
to  her,  and  her  grief  is  renewed :  "  As  you 
received  my  ring  with  a  burst  of  tears,  so  I 
receive  your  letters ;  it  seems  as  if  my  heart 
would  break.  .  .  .  You  make  me  feel  for  you 
all  that  love  can  feel ;  but  if  you  think  of 
me,  my  poor  darling,  be  sure  my  thoughts  are 


The  Writer.  117 

continually  with  you  ;  it  is  what  pious  people 
call  constant  devotion;  it  is  what  we  ought  , 
to  feel  for  God,  if  we  did  our  duty.  Nothing 
distracts  me  from  it;  I  am  always  with  you. 
I  see  that  coach  always  advancing  but  never 
approaching.  I  am  always  on  the  high-road, 
and  sometimes  feel  almost  afraid  lest  the  coach 
upset.  The  rains  that  have  continued  for  the 
last  three  days  drive  me  to  despair.  The 
Rhone  causes  me  strange  apprehensions.  I 
have  a  map  before  my  eyes,  and  know  every 
place  where  you  stop  over  night.  To-night 
you  are  at  Nevers,  and  Sunday  you  will  be 
at  Lyons,  where  you  will  get  this  letter." 
Then  come  no  end  of  cautions  with  regard  to 
all  the  risks  that  may  be  run  in  travelling: 
"  Have  pity  on  me,  and  take  care  of  yourself  ^ 
if  you  desire  me  to  live.  You  have  so  thor- 
oughly convinced  me  of  your  love  that  it 
would  seem  as  if,  merely  to  please  me,  you 
would  not  be  rash.  Do  write  me  about  your 
trip  by  boat.  Alas !  how  dear  and  precious 
to  me  is  that  little  boat  which  the  Rhone 
hurries  so  cruelly  from  me !  "  Days  pass,  but 
grief  remains.  After  the  daughter  has  been 
gone  a  fortnight,  it  seems  to  the  mother  that 
it  must  be  an  age :  "  Ah !  my  dear,  how  I 
long  just  to  see  you,  to  hear  you,  to  embrace 
you,  merely  to  see  you  pass  by,  if  the  rest  is 


1 1 8  Madame  de  Sevi^ne. 


i>' 


too  much  to  ask !  "  The  receipt  of  letters, 
the  coming  of  friends  and  acquaintances  to 
pay  her  their  comphments,  the  places  she  has 
seen  with  her  daughter  and  sees  again  alone, 
all  keep  her  tears  flowing.  "  I  mean  to  live  in 
solitude,"  she  says  when  she  first  returns  to 
Livry,  "  and  am  making  of  this  a  little  nunnery, 
that  here  I  may  pray  to  God,  here  yield  to  a 
thousand  reflections.  But,  my  poor  darling,  I 
shall  not  succeed  so  well  in  all  this  as  in  think- 
ing of  you.  I  have  not  once  ceased  doing  so 
since  my  coming;  and,  unable  to  keep  back  all 
my  thoughts  of  you,  I  have  begun  to  write  to 
you,  seated  at  the  end  of  that  little  shady 
walk  you  love,  on  the  mossy  seat  where  I 
have  seen  you  lying.  But,  Heavens !  where 
have  I  not  seen  you  here?  And  how  all  these 
thoughts  pierce  my  heart !  I  see  you  ;  you  are 
present  to  me ;  I  think  and  think  again  of  it 
all.  My  head  and  my  wits  are  in  a  whirl;  but 
in  vain  I  turn  about,  in  vain  I  search;  the 
dear  child  I  love  so  passionately  is  two  hun- 
dred leagues  away.  I  possess  her  no  more. 
At  this  my  tears  flow,  and  I  cannot  keep  them 
back." 

But  stop:  we  must  be  reasonable.  When 
once  we  begin  quoting  Madame  de  Sevigne 
wc  should  be  glad  to  keep  on.  Nothing  is 
more  difficult  than  to  break  the  charm  these 


The  Writer.  1 1 9 

letters  have  over  one,  and  regain  self-com- 
mand to  study  and  criticise  them.  Yet  this 
must  be  doire  if  we  wish  to  account  for  our 
pleasure,  and  by  analysis  increase  it. 

The  passages  just  cited  appear  so  simple, 
and  utter  so  naturally  what  we  all  experience, 
that  they  are  read  the  first  time  without  sur- 
prise. There  seems  nothing  remarkable  about 
them  except  this  very  simplicity  and  natural-'^C 
ness.  Now,  these  are  not  the  qualities  which 
attract  attention.  It  is  difficult  to  appreciate 
them  in  works  where  they  occur,  and  it  is  only 
by  reading  works  where  they  are  lacking  that^ 
we  realize  all  their  importance.  But  here,  as 
soon  as  we  reflect,  we  are  astonished  to  per- 
ceive that  this  great  emotion  is  expressed  in 
language  strong,  confident,  and  correct,  with 
no  hesitation  and  no  bungling.  The  lively  se- 
quence of  these  complaints  implies  that  they 
were  poured  forth  all  at  once,  in  a  single  out- 
burst; and  yet  the  perfection  of  the  style 
seems  impossible  of  attainment  without  some 
study  and  some  retouching.  It  is  sometimes 
said  that  a  strong  passion  at  once  creates  the 
language  to  express  it.  I  greatly  doubt  this. 
On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to  me  that  when 
the  soul  is  violently  agitated,  the  words  by 
which  we  try  to  express  our  feelings  always 
appear   dull    and    cold;    wc    arc    tempted    to 


1 20  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

make  use  of  exaggerated  and  far-fetched  ex- 
pressions in  order  to  rise  to  the  level  of  our 
sorrow  or  joy.  Hence  come  sometimes  ex- 
cessive terms,  discordant  metaphors.  We 
might  be  inclined  to  regard  these  as  thought 
out  at  leisure  and  in  cold  blood,  while  on  the 
contrary  they  are  the  product  of  the  first 
impulse,  of  the  effort  we  instinctively  make 
to  find  an  expression  corresponding  to  the 
intensity  of  our  passion.  There  is  nothing  of 
this  kind  in  Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters,  and 
however  violent  her  grief  may  be,  it  always 
speaks  in  accurate  and  fitting  language.  This 
is  a  valuable  quality,  and  one  extremely  rare. 
That  we  may  not  be  surprised  at  finding  it 
so  highly  developed  in  her,  we  need  only  re- 
member what  has  just  been  said  of  the  way 
in  which  she  was  unconsciously  prepared  to 
become  a  great  writer. 

Another  characteristic  of  Madame  de  Se- 
vigne's letters,  not  less  remarkable,  is  that  gen- 
erally her  most  loving  messages  are  cleverly 
expressed.  I  do  not  refer  merely  to  certain 
isolated  phrases  that  have  sometimes  appeared 
rather  affected.  "  The  north  wind  bound  for 
Grignan  makes  me  ache  for  your  chest."  "My 
dear,  how  the  burden  within  you  weighs  me 
down  !  "  "I  dare  not  read  your  letters  for  fear 
of  having  read  them."     These  are  only  occa- 


TJie  Writer.  121 

sional  flashes ;  but  almost  always,  when  on  the 
point  of  giving  way  to  all  her  emotion,  she 
gives  her  phrase  an  ingenious  turn,  she  makes 
witty  observations,  is  bright,  pleasing,  elegant. 
All  this  seems  to  some  to  proceed  from  a  mind 
quite  self-possessed,  and  not  so  far  affected  by 
passion  as  to  be  inattentive  to  elegant  diction. 
Just  now  I  placed  naturalness  among  Madame 
de  Sevigne's  leading  qualities.  There  are  those 
who  are  not  of  this  opinion,  and  contend  that 
naturalness  is  just  the  merit  she  most  lacks; 
but  we  must  define  our  meaning.  Naturalness 
for  each  one  is  what  is  comformable  to  his 
nature ;  and  as  each  one  of  us  has  a  nature  of 
his  own  very  different  from  that  of  his  neigh- 
bors, naturalness  cannot  be  exactly  the  same 
in  every  instance.  Moreover,  education  and 
habit  give  us  each  a  second  nature  which 
often  has  more  control  over  us  than  the  origi- 
nal one.  In  the  society  in  which  Madame  de 
Sevigne  lived,  people  made  a  point  of  speak- 
ing wittily.  The  first  few  times  one  appeared 
in  this  society  it  required  a  little  study  and 
effort  to  assume  the  same  tone  as  the  rest. 
One  had  to  be  on  the  watch  for  those  pleasant 
repartees  that,  among  the  frequenters  of  the 
Rambouillet  and  Richelieu  houses,  gave  the 
new-comer  a  good  reputation ;  but  after  a 
while   these    happy    sayings    came    unsought. 


12  2  Madame  de  Seviene. 


i3  ' 


To  persons  trained  in  such  a  school,  what 
might  at  first  sight  appear  subtle  and  refined 
is  ordinary  and  natural.  Whether  they  speak 
or  write,  their  ideas  take  a  certain  form  which 
is  not  the  usual  one ;  and  bright,  witty,  and 
dainty  phrases  which  would  require  labor  of 
others  occur  to  them  spontaneously.  To  be 
sure,  I  do  not  mean  that  Madame  de  Sevigne 
wrote  well  without  knowing  it.  This  is  a  thing 
of  which  a  witty  woman  always  has  an  inkling; 
and  besides,  her  friends  did  not  permit  her  to 
be  ignorant  of  it.  "  Your  letters  are  delight- 
ful," they  told  her,  "  and  you  are  like  your 
letters."  It  was  all  the  easier  to  believe  this, 
because  she  paid  to  herself  in  a  whisper  such 
compliments  as  others  addressed  to  her  aloud. 
One  day,  when  she  had  recently  written  to  her 
friend  Dr.  Bourdelot,  she  said  to  her  daugh- 
ter: "Bravo!  what  a  good  answer  I  sent 
him !  That  is  a  foolish  thing  to  say,  but  I  had 
a  good,  wide-awake  pen  that  day."  It  is  very 
delightful  to  feel  that  one  has  wit,  and  we  can 
understand  how  Madame  de  Sevigne  might 
sometimes  have  yielded  to  this  feeling  with 
some  satisfaction.  In  her  most  private  corre- 
spondence, that  in  which  she  least  thought  of 
the  public,  we  might  note  certain  passages  in 
which  she  takes  pleasure  in  elaborating  and 
decorating   her   thought,   and  in  adding  to  it 


The  Waiter.  123 

new  details  more  and  more  dainty  and  ingen- 
ious. This  she  does  without  effort,  to  satisfy 
her  own  taste,  and  to  give  herself  the  pleasure 
of  expressing  her  thought  agreeably.  It  has 
been  remarked  that  good  talkers  are  not  sen- 
sitive to  the  praises  of  others  only;  they  also 
wish  to  please  themselves  independently  of 
the  public  around  them,  and  like  to  hear 
themselves  talk.  It  might  be  said  in  the  same 
sense  that  Madame  de  Sevigne  sometimes  likes^ 
to  see  herself  write.  This  is  one  of  those 
pretty  artifices  which  in  women  do  not  ex- 
clude sincerity,  and  which  may  be  united  with 
naturalness. 

Doubtless  so  fitting   and  exact   a  mode  of 
speech,     such     refinement     and     wit     in     the 
expression    of  matters   of  affection,    are    rare 
qualities ;   but  they  are  not  the  distinguishing 
characteristics   of  Madame   de   Sevigne.     She 
was   not  the  only  one  who  possessed  them ; 
we  find  them,  for  example,  in  the  correspond- 
ence   of    her   friend    Madame    de    Coulanges. 
What  belongs  to  Madame  de  Sevigne  alone,^- 
and  places  her  in  the  first  rank,  is  her  imagi-;- 
nation.     No  one   has  had   a  more   lively  and 
versatile    imagination    than    hers.       She    pos- 
sesses to  a  wonderful  degree  that  charming 
gift  of  seeing  what  is  far  away,  of  travellingV 
in  fancy.     Need  it  be  said  that  her  daughter's 


1 24  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

country-seat  in  Provence  was  the  usual  goal 
of  these  airy  flights?  In  her  moments  of 
bitter  sorrow,  the  thought  of  that  winged 
horse  which  in  two  days  travelled  the  world 
over,  occurred  to  her  mind ;  and  she  said, 
"  Oh,  if  I  had  the  hippogriff  at  my  com- 
mand!  "  She  really  has  no  need  of  it;  her 
imagination  answers  the  purpose.  From  the 
very  first  parting  she  was  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  town  of  Grignan,  which  she  had 
never  seen,  that  when  the  daughter  leaves  it 
the  mother  finds  herself  all  abroad.  "  I  be- 
lieve you  to  be  at  Lambesc,  my  darling,  but 
I  cannot  see  you  well  from  here ;  there  are 
clouds  in  my  imagination  which  hide  you  from 
my  sight.  I  had  become  quite  at  home  in 
Grignan  Castle ;  I  saw  your  rooms,  I  walked  on 
your  terrace,  I  went  to  mass  in  your  beautiful 
church ;  but  now  I  know  not  where  I  am." 
Another  time,  after  having  asked  for  tidings 
of  the  Chevalier  de  Grignan,  whom  she  highly 
esteemed,  and  whose  infirmities  kept  him  in 
Provence,  she  added :  "  Tell  me  in  what  room 
you  have  put  him,  that  I  may  make  him 
visits."  As  yet  she  only  knew  her  grand- 
daughter Pauline  by  the  pleasing  descriptions 
that  were  sent  of  her  charming  countenance, 
and  especially  of  her  beautiful  eyes.  At 
these    her    imagination    is    kindled,    and    she 


The  Writer.  125 

cries :  "  Oh,  how  pretty  they  arc  !  I  sec  them." 
This  is  not  mere  talk ;  she  really  saw  them. 
To  her  absent  friends  she  chats  as  if  they 
were  beside  her.  Her  letters  are  conversa- 
tions. She  herself  says  so,  and  they  have  all 
the  charms  of  conversation.  And  first,  we 
find  in  them  a  charming  variety  and  dis- 
order resembling  that  of  familiar  talk.  She  is 
not  like  her  cousin  Bussy,  who  marshals 
his  thoughts  with  exemplary  regularity.  He 
makes  a  point  of  replying  to  all  the  obser- 
vations and  even  to  all  the  witticisms  ad- 
dressed to  him,  in  perfect  order;  each  is  in 
its  place  and  waits  its  turn.  Madame  de 
Sevigne  has  no  methodical  way  of  writing, 
and  lays  no  plan  beforehand.  Her  fancy  is 
her  guide.  She  goes  out  in  every  direction, 
and  at  last  tells  so  many  strange  things  of 
which  at  first  she  did  not  think,  that  she 
becomes  a  little  ashamed  of  it:  "  If  the  post- 
men knew  with  what  our  letters  are  filled,  they 
would  leave  them  midway."  As  she  sees  the 
events  she  recounts,  no  matter  at  what  dis- 
tance they  have  taken  place,  the  pictures  she 
gives  of  them  arc  incredibly  true  to  life.  I 
am  a  little  embarrassed  about  citing  proof, 
not  because  instances  are  wanting,  but  be- 
cause these  charming  narratives  are  too  well 
Known,  —  they    are    known    by   heart.       How 


1 26  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

could  I  venture  to  repeat,  at  this  late  day, 
either  the  death  of  Turenne,  or  the  story  of 
the  Archbishop  of  Reims  returning  from 
St.  Germain,  or  how  the  game  of  basset 
brought  about  the  separation  of  M.  de  La 
Fare  and  Madame  de  La  Sabliere,  or  the 
charming  gossip  about  Langlee  and  Madame 
de  Montespan's  dress?  But  here  in  a  few 
strokes  is  a  finished  picture  which  seems  to 
me  less  familiar.  It  represents  the  great 
Conde,  who  was  usually  very  negligent  in 
his  attire,  as  he  appeared  to  the  astonished 
courtiers  on  the  day  when  the  Prince  of  Conti 
married  Mademoiselle  de  Blois :  "I  will  tell 
you  the  greatest  and  strangest  piece  of  news 
that  you  could  be  informed  of;  namely,  that 
my  Lord  the  Prince  of  Conde  was  shaved 
yesterday;  his  beard  is  gone;  this  is  no  illu- 
sion, nor  is  it  said  in  jest;  it  is  the  truth.  All 
the  court  beheld  it,  and  Madame  de  Langeron, 
seizing  her  time  when  the  lion  had  his  paws 
crossed,  dressed  him  in  a  close-fitting  coat 
decorated  with  diamonds;  and  his  valet,  also 
taking  advantage  of  his  patience,  frizzed  and 
powdered  his  hair,  thus  reducing  him  to  be 
the  handsomest  man  of  the  court,  with  a  head 
of  hair  better  than  any  wig.  This  was  the 
miracle  of  the  wedding  feast." 

With  an  imagination  so  lively  and  a  nature 


The  Writer.  127 

so  versatile,  it  was  natural  to  receive  without 
resistance  the  impressions  that  others  wished 
to  give  her.  She  adopted  the  views  of  her 
friends,  and  was  quick  to  share  their  sentiments. 
"  I  always  have  the  same  opinion  as  the  per- 
son I  last  listened  to."  It  is  evident  that  she 
understood  her  own  character.  Sometimes 
she  even  jested  about  this  weakness.  She 
said  of  herself:  "  And  I,  everybody's  dupe, 
as  you  are  aware;"  or  again:  "  You  know  I 
follow  others,  but  invent  nothing  myself." 
Amusing  instances  could  be  cited  from  her 
letters  of  the  ease  with  which  her  friends  in-  ^ 
duced  her  to  change  her  mind.  This  was  of' 
course  a  defect  in  her  character  as  a  woman, 
but  it  has  added  many  beauties  to  her  style  as 
a  writer.  By  promptly  sharing  the  emotions 
of  others  she  added  to  her  own,  and  her  wit 
is  excited  and  kindled  by  theirs.  When  she 
talks  we  hear  not  her  alone,  but  the  echo  of 
the  great  minds  she  associated  with.  It  seems - 
to  me  that  we  can  tell  by  her  mode  of  ex- 
pressing herself  what  people  she  has  just  left, 
and  from  whom  she  has  derived  the  observa- 
tions and  narratives  which  she  repeats  to  her 
daughter.  Had  she  not  passed  the  day  in 
Rochefoucauld's  company  at  Madame  de  La- 
fayette's when  she  so  shrewdly  portrays  the 
good  D'Hacqueville  in   love,   unwillingly  and 


128  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

unwittingly?  "You  ask  for  the  symptoms  of 
this  love :  first,  there  is  a  hasty  and  uncalled- 
for  denial ;  there  is  an  air  of  excessive  indiffer- 
ence which  proves  the  contrary ;  there  is  a 
suspension  of  all  earthly  activity;  there  is  the 
relinquishment  of  all  ordinary  cares  and  a  pre- 
occupation with  a  single  one ;  there  is  a  con- 
tinuous volley  of  satire  directed  against  old 
people  in  love :  '  Really,  I  had  need  be  very 
foolish,  very  crazy !  What !  take  a  young 
wife?  That  would  be  a  pretty  business  for 
me  !  That,  forsooth,  would  just  suit  me  !  I 
had  rather  have  both  arms  broken.'  To  this 
you  respond  mentally,  '  Yes,  of  course  all  that 
is  true;  but  you  are  in  love,  none  the  less. 
You  tell  us  your  thoughts;  they  are  just,  they 
are  true,  they  torment  you ;  but  for  all  that 
you  are  in  love.  You  are  chock-full  of  rea- 
son ;  but  love  is  stronger  than  all  your  reasons. 
You  are  ill,  you  weep,  you  storm  —  and  you 
are  in  love.'  "  In  a  very  sad  letter  written  to 
her  daughter,  when  on  the  point  of  setting  out 
for  the  Rochers  estate,  which  meant  the  addi- 
tion of  a  hundred  leagues  to  the  distance  be- 
tween them,  a  grand  speech  on  Providence  is 
suddenly  encountered :  "  He  who  should  de- 
prive me  of  my  view  of  Providence  would 
deprive  me  of  my  only  blessing;  and  if  I 
thought  it  was  in  our  power  to  arrange  plans 


The  Writer.  129 

or  disarrange  them,  to  act  or  refrain  from 
action,  to  decide  one  way  or  the  other,  I 
should  not  find  one  moment's  peace.  To  my 
mind  the  Author  of  the  universe  must  be  the 
cause  of  all  that  happens.  When  I  must  needs 
blame  Him,  I  blame  no  one,  and  submit.  .  .  . 
It  was  decreed  that  there  should  be  a  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne  loving  her  daughter  more 
than  any  other  mother  loves  hers,  that  she 
should  be  often  far  away  from  this  daughter, 
and  that  the  keenest  sufferings  she  should  ex- 
perience in  this  life  should  be  occasioned  by 
this  dear  child."  This  time  we  need  not  seek 
far  to  find  those  who  suggested  her  thoughts. 
She  herself  tells  us  that  she  had  just  been 
dining  with  very  intelligent  people  "  who  did 
not  deprive  her  of  this  opinion."  They  were 
her  dear  friends  from  Port  Royal,  and  they 
had  unfolded  before  her  their  great  doctrine 
of  Grace  which  she  does  no  more  than  apply 
to  her  individual  situation.  One  of  her  finest 
letters  is  that  in  which  she  describes  the  re- 
ception of  the  Knights  of  the  Order  of  the 
Holy  Spirit  in  the  great  promotions  of  1674, 
in  which  her  son-in-law  shared.  She  was  not 
present  herself,  but  Coulanges  went  to  Ver- 
sailles on  purpose  to  see  it,  and  she  tells  us 
that  he  has  just  given  her  an  account  of  it. 
She  really  had  no  need  to  tell  us,  for  it  seems 
9 


1 30  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

to  me  that  without  being  informed  of  it  we 
should  readily  have  perceived  his  voice,  his 
gestures,  his  spirit  of  buffoonery  and  parody, 
ever  disclosing  to  him  the  humorous  side  of 
serious  matters.  It  is  just  like  him  to  seize, 
and  note  in  passing,  the  burlesque  incidents 
of  this  majestic  ceremonial, —  La  Trousse's  dis- 
ordered wig,  and  the  circumstance  of  M.  de 
Montchevreul  and  M.  de  Villars  getting  so 
desperately  hooked  together  that  no  human 
hand  could  separate  them.  "  The  more  they 
tried,  the  more  of  a  tangle  they  made  of  it, 
like  Roger's  rings.  Finally,  the  whole  cere- 
mony, all  the  courtesies,  all  the  manoeuvres 
remaining  at  a  standstill,  they  had  to  be  vio- 
lently torn  asunder,  and  main  strength  won 
the  day."  It  was  the  same  Coulanges,  amus- 
ing little  man  that  he  was,  who  reported  the 
accident  which  befell  the  honest  D'Hocquin- 
court.  "  He  was  dressed  like  the  men  of 
Provence  and  Brittany,  so  that  his  breeches  as 
royal  page  being  less  roomy  than  his  ordinary 
ones,  his  shirt  would  never  consent  to  remain 
within  them,  no  matter  how  he  pleaded  with 
it ;  for,  conscious  of  his  condition,  he  was  con- 
stantly trying  to  arrange  it,  always  in  vain ; 
so  that  finally  My  Lady  the  Dauphiness  could 
no  longer  keep  from  peals  of  laughter.  This 
was  a  great  pity;   His   Majesty  the  King  was 


The  Writer.  131 

on  the  point  of  breaking  down ;  and  never 
had  there  been  known  in  the  annals  of  this 
knightly  order  an  instance  of  such  a  mis- 
chance." To  adapt  herself  in  this  way  to 
others,  to  appropriate  their  wit  and  receive 
from  it  the  stimulus  to  excite  her  own,  "  to  in- 
vent nothing,"  but  to  lend  new  fascination  to 
ideas  coming  from  other  sources,  to  renew  the 
youth  and  freshness  of  these  ideas  by  the  keen- 
ness of  her  perception  and  the  ingenuity  of  her 
expression,  —  such  is  the  characteristic  charm 
of  woman.  In  this  respect  it  may  be  said 
that  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  more  truly  a 
woman  than  any  other.  Her  qualities  are 
those  which  we  expect  to  find,  and  which 
please  us  most,  in  persons  of  her  sex,  —  not 
original  powers  and  creative  gifts,  but  this 
talent  for  reflecting  those  they  love,  entering 
into  their  ideas,  and  giving  these  more  vigor 
and  animation  by  reproducing  them. 

With  such  qualities,  it  is  not  surprising  that 
her  style  does  not  essentially  differ  from  that 
of  her  contemporaries.  She  writes  as  the  rest 
do,  though  she  writes  better  than  they.  Even 
when  recounting  trifles  her  diction  is  flowing 
and  periodic;  it  is  never  heavy  like  that  of 
Madame  de  Longueville  or  Madame  de  Sable, 
though  it  ordinarily  has  fulness  and  amplitude. 
Long  explanations  are  not  distasteful  to  her ; 


1 32  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

she  emphasizes  her  ideas  and  repeats  them ; 
occasionally  she  knows  how  to  make  oratorical 
flights :  this  was  a  common  practice  with 
those  about  her.  But  she  also  has  her  per- 
sonal modes  of  speech ;  she  creates  expres- 
sions which  are  all  her  own,  and  which  are 
freer  and  livelier  than  those  employed  in  the 
seventeenth  century  by  professional  authors. 
When  she  passes  through  Burgundy,  in  amaze- 
ment at  the  fertility  of  the  country,  she  does 
not  hesitate  to  say,  "Everything  here  is  burst- 
ing with  wheat."  Referring  to  a  trip  M.  de 
Marsillac  made  through  his  domain  to  repair 
damages,  she  says:  "He  stopped  neither  for 
sport  nor  for  excursions ;  he  had  with  him 
Gourville,  who  has  not  often  time  to  give,  and 
conducted  him  like  a  river  through  all  his 
lands  to  bring  them  fatness  and  fertility."  I 
know  of  none  except  her  and  Saint-Simon 
who  then  wrote  in  so  original  a  way ;  and 
they  are  perhaps  the  only  two  who  did  not 
trouble  their  heads  about  the  pubhc.  She 
thought  that  her  letters  would  never  get  out- 
side of  the  private  circle  to  which  they  were 
addressed ;  and  as  for  Saint-Simon,  since  he 
had  postponed  for  a  century  the  publication 
of  his  "  Memoirs,"  the  fear  of  his  remote  read- 
ers could  not  much  interfere  with  his  freedom 
of  expression. 


The  Writer.  133 

When  one  has  just  been  reading   Madame 
de    Sevigne's    letters,    it   is    natural    that  one 
should   be   rather  surprised   that   a   writer   of 
such  talent,  \vho  knew  she  possessed  it,  should 
not  have   been  tempted    to  write   some    con-"/- 
nected  work.     Why,  for  instance,  did  she  not 
compose  memoirs  like  Madame  de  Motteville, 
treatises    on    social    ethics    like    Madame    de 
Lambert,    or    novels    like    Madame    de    La- 
fayette?    Sometimes    such     regrets     are     ex- 
pressed;   and   it  would  at  first  seem  that  with 
her  fortunate  natural  gifts,  and  her  wealth  of, 
imagination,  she  might  have  left  us  some  great 
work.      Perhaps    we    are    wrong   in    thinking 
so.     The  qualities  we  admire  in  her  letters  are 
not  such    as    a    long  work  requires.     Success 
in  such  a  work  involves    the  power   of  self- 
restraint  and  self-mastery,  ability  to  take  \avs\^\ 
for  reflection,  skill  in  planning  and  combining    - 
beforehand.     These  are  habits  difficult  of  ac- 
quirement for  one  who  is  accustomed  in  writ- 
ing to  give  up  to  the  impulse  of  the  moment 
and  let  the  pen   run  on    at   random.     It  has 
been  observed  that  journalists,  who  are  obliged 
to  improvise   an  article    every  day,    and    who 
become  able  to  do  this  with  wonderful   skill, 
can  at  last  produce  nothing  but  articles,  and 
arc  incapable  of  composing  a  book.     Madame 
de    Lafayette    wrote    such    good    novels,   just 


1 34  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

because  her  temperament  did  not  resemble 
her  friend's,  and  because  she  controlled  her 
talents  differently.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  Na- 
ture had  intended  her  to  be  a  professional 
author.  Her  letters,  irreproachable  in  their 
form,  full  of  a  discreet  and  charming  intelli- 
gence, are  generally  short  and  unadorned. 
Hers  is  the  tone  of  a  woman  who  makes  re- 
serves, and  is  secretly  preparing  material  for 
a  work  she  has  in  view.  Madame  de  Sevigne, 
on  the  contrary,  pours  out  all  her  heart,  and 
.when  once  she  has  taken  her  pen,  keeps  noth- 
ing back.  It  is  probable,  then,  that  if  it  had 
suddenly  occurred  to  her  to  write  another 
"  Princess  of  Cleves  "  in  imitation  of  Madame 
de  Lafayette,  she  would  have  found  herself 
devoid  of  material  and  ill-prepared,  and  would 
perhaps  have  had  less  success  than  we  are 
inchned  to  suppose.  But  she  has  left  us  her 
letters;   and  what  more  can  we  ask? 


PART  III. 


THE     W  O  R  K. 


ALL  are  agreed  that  one  of  the  chief  ad- 
vantages derivable  from  a  genuine  cor- 
respondence coming  from  intelHgent  and 
well-informed  people  consists  in  its  enabling 
us  to  gain  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  society  of  which  they  speak.  As  they  do 
not  know  that  we  are  to  read  their  letters, 
they  do  not  think  of  influencing  our  opinions, 
and  have  no  thesis  or  system  to  advocate. 
They  give  us,  concerning  events,  those  first 
impressions  which  are  the  best  ones.  They 
show  us  how  things  looked  in  their  times,  and 
make  us  their  contemporaries ;  so  that  with 
their  letters  before  us  we  can  judge  better  for 
ourselves  and  form  our  own  opinion. 

Madame  de  Sevigne  performs  this  service 
for  us  better  than  any  one  else,  because  she 
possesses  in  the  highest  degree  the  power  of 
giving  life  to  what  she  tells.  We  can  treat 
her  letters,  then,  as  genuine  historical  docu- 
ments; but  if  we  propose  to  extract  from 
them  all  the  information  they  could  furnish 
regarding   her   times,  the    task    would    be  an 


o 


6  Madame  de  Sevigne. 


endless  one.  We  must  limit  ourselves,  and 
select  a  subject  for  investigation.  Let  us  sup- 
pose that  we  have  just  read  her  entire  corre- 
spondence, and  that,  closing  the  book  and 
relying  on  memory,  we  ask  ourselves  what 
impression  she  gives  us  of  the  people  she 
knew,  in  what  respects  society  then  resembled 
that  of  our  day,  and  in  what  the  differences 
consist.  It  is  equally  important  to  throw 
light  upon  each  of  these  points ;  for  if  it  is  of 
great  interest  to  display  that  common  nature 
by  virtue  of  which  all  men  resemble  one 
another  and  recognize  their  common  kinship, 
it  is  no  less  interesting  to  see  how  customs, 
ideas,  and  even  feelings  change  from  age  to 
age.  From  this  we  learn  that  what  now  exists 
has  not  always  been  as  it  is,  and  how  it  might 
be  different.  Though  this  is  a  very  elemen- 
tary truth,  it  is  not  one  of  which  we  are  at  first 
aware.  Yet  it  is  very  important  to  fix  it  in 
the  mind,  in  order  to  prevent  us  from  being 
too  infatuated  with  our  own  opinions,  too 
firmly  anchored  to  our  prejudices,  and  too 
rebellious  against  all  useful  changes. 

I. 

The  correspondence  of  Madame  de  Sevlgn6 
being  composed  mainly  of  letters  to  Madame 


The  Work.  137 

de  Grignan,  what  it  first  reveals  to  us  is  family 
life.  It  might  be  thought  that  with  regard  to 
this  we  should  not  have  many  unusual  things 
to  notice.  The  relations  between  a  mother 
and  her  children  do  not  appear  to  be  sub- 
ject to  much  change  from  age  to  age.  It 
would  seem  that  an  affection  so  purely  natu- 
ral must  always  manifest  itself  in  about  the 
same  way.  Yet  from  the  very  first  letters  it 
may  be  perceived,  by  certain  peculiarities,  that 
they  were  not  written  in  our  day. 

In  the  first  place,  their  tone  is  almost  always 
respectful  and  measured,  and  they  are  per- 
vaded by  a  gravity  surprising  to  us.  Surely 
no  mother  is  nowadays  so  formal  in  chatting 
with  her  daughter.  I  know  very  well  that  we 
must  not  be  deceived  by  appearances;  the 
surprise  that  we  feel  in  reading  these  letters 
is  largely  attributable  to  an  external  cause. 
The  nearest  relatives  had  not  yet  acquired 
the  habit  of  saying  "  thee  "  and  "  thou  ;  "  ^  the 
"  you  "  by  which  they  address  each  other,  so 
contrary  to  present  French  usage,  is  enough 
to  change  the  appearance  of  these  confidential 
notes  for  us,  and  to  give  them  an  air  of  con- 
straint  and    frigidity.      Among  Bussy's  letters 

1  Like  our  English  forefathers,  the  French  employ  the 
pronominal  forms  corresponding  to  "  thou,"  "  thee,"  "  thy," 
in  familiar  intercourse.  —  Tr. 


o 


8  Madame  de  Sevigne. 


we  find  a  rather  curious  proof  of  the  repug- 
nance that  was  felt  to  employing  too  familiar 
forms  in  intercourse.  Father  Bouhours  writes 
to  him  that  he  is  extremely  shocked  to  see 
the  unceremonious  way  in  which  the  poets 
permit  themselves  to  "  thee  "  and  "  thou  "  kings 
and  princes :  — 

"  Great  monarch  !  sheathe  thy  conquering  sword, 
Or  I  '11  lay  down  my  pen."  ^ 

"  The  Latin,  to  be  sure,"  said  he,  "  does  this 
in  verse,  but  only  because  it  does  so  in  prose. 
It  is  not  at  all  the  same  in  our  language,  in 
which  *  thee '  and  '  thou  '  are  only  used  to  ser- 
vants and  inferiors ;  and  so  true  is  this,  that  a 
lover  would  never  say  either  '  thee  '  or  *  thou  ' 
to  his  lady-love." 

Bussy  is,  in  the  main,  of  his  opinion,  and 
like  him  would  wish  to  require  of  the  poets 
more  respect  toward  his  Sovereign  Majesty. 
On  a  single  point  he  makes  a  reservation, 
saying:  "It  is  not  true,  reverend  Father,  that 
a  lover  never  says  '  thee '  and  '  thou '  to  his 
lady;  but  you  could  not  be  expected  to  know 
that."  Bussy  himself  knew  it  very  well,  since 
he  had  had  occasion  to  write  many  letters  of 
that  nature.  The  darling  daughter  by  his  side, 
the   beautiful    and    romantic    Marchioness   of 

1  Boileau,  "Epistle  to  the  King,"  line  i.  —  Tr. 


The  Work.  139 

CoHgny,  who  was  in  love  with  La  Riviere,  — 
a  man  of  doubtful  nobility  but  undoubted 
dishonesty,  —  was  also  quite  well  aware  of  it. 
We  have  the  despairing  letter  she  wrote  to 
her  lover  to  inform  him  that  she  was  to  be 
forever  separated  from  him.  "Thou  mayst  well 
believe,"  she  says  to  him,  "  that  it  will  not  be 
difficult  to  persuade  me  to  abandon  life.  This 
is  the  sweetest  thing  in  store  for  me,  since  I 
have  lost  thee.  Seek  not  to  see  me ;  nothing 
would  be  more  dangerous  for  thee  and  me : 
neither  seek  to  write  to  me  without  extreme 
precautions,  for  they  take  strange  measures  to 
find  out  if  we  write  to  each  other.  Farewell 
my  all ;  I  am  dying,  thank  God ! "  Could 
Father  Bouhours  have  read  this  letter  he 
would  indeed  have  been  forced  to  confess  that 
lovers  "  sometimes  say 'thee'  and  'thou;'"  but 
certain  it  is  that  it  required  circumstances  as 
critical,  and  a  passion  as  violent,  to  cause  peo- 
ple to  break  away  from  the  ordinary  forms. 

I  have  found  only  a  single  passage  in  all 
the  letters  of  Madame  de  Sevigne,  in  which 
she  allows  herself  the  use  of  "  thee "  and 
"  thou."  She  was  at  the  Rochers  chateau  in 
one  of  those  sad  and  lonely  moments  when  her 
daughter's  absence  drove  her  to  distraction. 
"  You  actually  say  that  Grignan  sends  me 
kisses.     You  are  getting  too  familiar,  my  dear 


1 40  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

Grignan.  Do  come  and  play  a  game  of  mall 
on  my  lawn,  I  beseech  thee ;  it  is  such  fine 
weather,  and  I  so  want  to  see  you  play,  you 
play  so  gracefully,  you  make  such  fine  strokes. 
You  are  very  cruel  to  refuse  me  just  one  hour's 
pleasure.  And  you,  my  love,  come,  we  will 
talk.  Alas!  I  am  sad  enough  to  weep."  Ob- 
serve that  it  is  her  son-in-law  to  whom  she 
uses  "thee,"  not  her  daughter;  the  Countess 
of  Grignan  demanded  respect.  She  was  even 
so  formal  that  one  day,  speaking  to  Madame 
de  Sevigne  of  the  Baron  de  Chantal,  she  called 
him  "  my  lord,  your  father."  "  It  made  me 
feel  as  if  we  were  not  related,"  replied  her 
mother,  a  little  put  out.  "  What  do  you  think 
was  his  relation  to  you?  " 

These,  however,  are,  I  repeat,  only  external 
forms,  which  alter  nothing  essential.  We  must 
beware  of  drawing  from  them  too  rigorous 
inferences  of  any  kind.  I  know  some  people 
who,  enamoured  of  the  good  old  times,  and 
determined  to  hold  them  up  as  a  model  in 
everything,  greatly  admire  this  respectful  use 
of  "  you  "  between  relatives,  thinking  that  it 
helps  to  preserve  a  certain  dignity  in  the  most 
familiar  intercourse.  To  undeceive  themselves 
they  have  only  to  read  the  extremely  bold  dis- 
closures made  by  the  mother  to  the  daughter 
concerning  the  conduct  of  Charles  de  Sevign6, 


The  Work.  141 

and  concerning  his  love  affairs  with  Ninon 
de  Lcnclos  and  the  handsome  Duchess  de 
Villeroy,  —  amours  which  had  for  him  such 
disagreeable  consequences, —  and  to  note  with 
what  pleasure  the  daughter  listens  to  all  this, 
told  as  it  is  in  her  mother's  beautiful  lan- 
guage. It  will  readily  be  acknowledged  that 
all  seriousness  is  absent  from  these  frivolous 
talcs.  To  those  again  who  contend  that  the 
"  you  "  is  awkward,  because  it  puts  a  con- 
straint on  familiar  intercourse  and  produces 
a  certain  frigid  fashion  of  expressing  the  feel- 
ings, the  whole  correspondence  of  Madame  de 
Sevigne  will  show  that  in  order  to  love  pas- 
sionately, and  to  express  such  love,  there  is  no 
need  of  saying  "  thee  "  and  "  thou." 

It  is  true  that  we  must  not  judge  this  whole 
epoch  by  the  single  instance  of  Madame  de 
Sevigne.  She  was  an  exception  in  her  times. 
These  effusions  of  tenderness  for  her  daughter, 
of  which  she  is  so  lavish  in  her  letters  and 
which  she  could  not  altogether  restrain  in 
every-day  life,  caused  some  surprise  around 
her.  Evidently  people  were  not  used  to  it. 
Madame  de  Grignan  feared  that  her  mother 
would  be  censured  for  these  outbursts  of  feel- 
ing, and  she  trembled  lest  she  herself  should 
be  involved  in  the  ridicule  which  Madame  de 
Sevigne  seemed  to  invite.     It  is  certain,  then, 


142  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

that  people  did  not  usually  go  so  far  as  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne,  and  that  it  was  in  good 
taste  to  be  somewhat  reserved  in  the  expres- 
sion of  the  feelings.  Nowadays  they  are  ex- 
pressed as  unreservedly  as  they  are  felt;  it 
even  seems  that  instead  of  restraint  there  is  a 
fashion  of  making  a  display  of  them.  People 
now  openly  plume  themselves  upon  what  they 
once  discreetly  concealed.  This  is  a  difference 
which  it  is  important  to  point  out. 

But  the  difference  is  even  greater,  and  is  not 
wholly  confined  to  appearances.  We  must 
even  acknowledge,  however  surprising  it  may 
be,  that  mothers  have  not  always  loved  their 
children  in  the  same  way;  that  in  the  treat- 
ment of  them,  in  the  care  taken  of  them,  in  the 
place  assigned  them,  in  the  importance  allowed 
them,  there  are  from  age  to  age  perceptible 
changes.  Antiquity  had  no  tenderness  toward 
the  new-born  babes.  "  The  child,"  says  Taci- 
tus, "  was  handed  over  immediately  after  birth 
to  a  wretched  Greek  slave-woman,  with  whom 
were  associated  two  or  three  of  her  slave  com- 
panions, usually  the  most  worthless,  and  the 
most  incapable  of  any  serious  employment." 
The  mother  hardly  ever  paid  any  attention  to 
her  offspring;  and  as  they  occupied  but  little 
place  in  her  life,  they  had  scarcely  any  in  her 
affections.     Cicero  in  one  of  his  letters  speaks 


The  Work.  143 

of  his  daughter's  poor  Httle  child  that  died. 
His  expressions  are  strangely  cold  and  un- 
feeling. He  almost  calls  it  an  abortion  :  "Quod 
natum  est,  pcrimbccillimum  est."  ^  The  expla- 
nation of  this  coldness  is  to  be  found  in  the 
following  phrase  from  his  "  Tusculan  Dispu- 
tations "  :  "  When  a  child  dies  young,  we  are 
easily  consoled ;  and  if  it  dies  in  the  cradle 
we  pay  no  attention  to  it."  If  a  wife  presented 
her  husband  with  a  deformed  child,  or  one 
he  was  simply  unwilling  to  support,  law  and 
custom  authorized  him  to  expose  it  before  his 
door,  where  it  died  of  cold  and  hunger  unless 
some  passer-by  carried  it  home  to  do  with  it 
what  he  pleased.  Seneca  considered  this  a 
very  natural  custom ;  and  the  Emperor  Con- 
stantine  was  the  first  to  whom  it  occurred  to 
be  shocked  at  it  and  to  forbid  it.  Of  course 
there  was  nothing  like  this  in  the  society  of 
the  seventeenth  century;  and  yet  it  may  be 
said  that,  at  least  up  to  a  certain  age,  children 
did  not  fill  so  important  a  place  as  to-day 
in  their  mother's  life.  Pleasures  and  engage- 
ments did  not  leave  time  to  take  care  of 
children.     Society   was   so    agreeable    and    so 

1  This  quotation,  which  should  read,  "Quod  quid  emest 
natum  perimbeciilum  est"  ("Indeed,  what  is  born  is  a  very 
fcel)le  tiling"),  is  found  in  Cicero's  "Letters  to  Atticus," 
X.  18.  I.— Tr. 


144  Madame  de  Sevigfie. 

exacting !  Parents  had  so  many  duties  to  ful- 
fil, so  many  visits  to  pay  and  to  receive ! 
Accordingly  they  sent  their  daughters  to  a 
convent  as  soon  as  possible,  to  be  rid  of  them, 
and  once  there,  were  fain  to  leave  them  there. 
The  sons,  when  they  had  hardly  yet  the  first 
glimmerings  of  reason,  the  parents  gave  over 
to  a  tutor,  and  were  more  careful  to  select  a 
person  of  undoubted  noble  lineage,  of  which 
they  could  boast,  than  a  worthy  man  suited  to 
the  duties  intrusted  to  him. 

All  this  is  perceived  clearly  enough  from 
the  correspondence  of  Madame  de  Sevigne. 
Some  differences  of  opinion  on  this  head,  how- 
ever, can  be  detected  between  her  and  her 
daughter,  of  which  perhaps  they  were  them- 
selves not  fully  aware.  The  daughter  yields 
in  everything  to  the  prejudices  of  the  time, 
while  the  mother  often  resists  them.  Madame 
de  Grignan's  first  child  was  not  well  received ; 
it  was  a  girl,  and  they  expected  a  boy.  There 
is  much  disappointment  and  sadness  in  the 
few  words  the  young  mother  wrote  from  her 
bed  to  M.  de  Grignan,  whom  official  duties  de- 
tained in  Provence :  "  If  my  good  health  can 
console  you  for  having  only  a  daughter,  I  shall 
not  ask  your  pardon  for  not  giving  you  a  son. 
I  am  out  of  all  danger,  and  anxious  to  join  you. 
My  mother  will  tell  you  the  rest."   The  mother 


The  Work.  145 

takes  the  pen,  but  speaks  in  a  different  tone. 
She  soon  gets  over  her  disappointment,  and 
from  the  first  we  feel  that  her  good-humor  is 
unimpaired,  "  Madame  de  Puisieux  dit  que, 
si  vous  avcz  envie  d'avoir  un  fils,  vous  preniez 
la  peine  de  le  faire :  je  trouve  ce  discours 
le  plus  juste  ct  le  meilleur  du  monde.  Vous 
nous  avez  laissc  une  petite  fille,  nous  vous  la 
rendons."  Some  months  later,  when  Madame 
de  Grignan  set  out  to  rejoin  her  husband,  the 
child,  not  appearing  strong  enough  to  endure 
the  long  journey,  was  left  with  her  grand- 
mother. Madame  de  Sevigne  took  her  task 
seriously.  She  did  not  turn  it  over  to  others, 
as  those  around  her  so  often  did.  Every  one 
should  read  tlie  amusing  letter  in  which  she 
relates  to  her  daughter,  with  the  good-humor 
that  had  shocked  the  Chevalier  de  Perrin,  how 
she  had  installed  at  her  house  a  new  nurse, 
and  what  pleasure  she  took  in  seeing  her 
grand-daughter  recovering  her  health.  "  She 
never  was  so  well  nourished.  Her  other  nurse 
had  but  little  milk ;  this  one  has  as  much  as  a 
cow.  She  is  an  honest,  artless  peasant  woman 
of  twenty-four  years,  with  beautiful  teeth,  black 
hair,  and  sun-browned  complexion.  She  has 
had  milk  four  months;  her  child  is  fair  as  an 
angel.  .  .  .  Your  little  girl  grows  lovable ;  we  are 
becoming  attached  to  her.  In  a  fortnight  she 
10 


146  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

will  be  a  chubby  oaf,  white  as  snow  and  laugh- 
ing incessantly.  These,  my  dear,  are  trifling 
details.  You  no  longer  know  me ;  I  have  be- 
come a  genuine  gossip,  and  am  going  to  be 
the  oracle  of  the  neighborhood."  The  same 
thing  happened  that  usually  happens  in  such 
circumstances.  As  it  is  in  the  order  of  nature 
that  people  should  become  attached  to  chil- 
dren in  proportion  to  the  trouble  they  cost  and 
the  care  taken  of  them,  Madame  de  Sevigne 
acquired  a  very  ardent  affection  for  the  girl 
she  calls  "  her  little  sweetheart."  She  would 
have  been  very  glad  to  take  her  away  to  the 
Rochers  chateau,  for  the  child  would  have 
been  a  charming  companion,  and  would  have 
given  her  agreeable  occupation  in  this  lonely 
place.  But  Madame  du  Puy-du-Fou,  a  person 
of  sense  and  experience,  advised  against  it: 
"  She  said  that  it  would  be  risking  the  child's 
health,  whereupon  I  yielded.  I  should  not 
be  willing  to  imperil  her  little  person;  I  am 
quite  in  love  with  her.  I  have  had  her  hair 
cut,  and  dressed  in  hurly-burly  style,  which 
just  suits  her.  Her  complexion,  her  throat, 
all  her  httle  body  is  wonderful.  She  does 
a  hundred  little  things,  —  babbhng,  coaxing, 
striking,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  asking 
pardon,  making  a  bow,  kissing  her  hand,  shrug- 
ging her  shoulders,  dancing,  wheedling,  pluck- 


The  Work.  147 

ing  your  chin;  in  a  word,  she  is  charming 
every  way.  I  amuse  myself  with  her  for  hours 
together.  The  Httlc  thing  shall  not  die,  if  I  can 
help  it.  As  I  told  you  the  other  day,  I  do  not 
know  how  one  manages  not  to  love  one's  daugh- 
ter." Madame  de  Grignan  doubtless  loved  her 
daughter,  but  not  enough  to  save  her  from  the 
fate  awaiting  most  of  the  girls  in  those  noble 
families  which  were  so  involved  in  debt.  The 
sweet  and  gentle  Marie-Blanche  was  early 
banished  from  her  father's  house.  They 
would  not  have  her  acquire  a  love  for  home, 
for  she  was  not  to  stay  there.  She  was  five 
years  old  when  they  took  her  to  a  convent, 
and  she  never  came  back.  At  fifteen,  she  took 
the  veil,  without  any  one's  inquiring  whether 
this  austere  life  suited  her.  Her  grandmother 
alone,  far  away,  uttered  her  lament,  gentle  as 
a  stifled  sigh :  "  Poor  child,  how  fortunate 
she  is,  if  she  is  satisfied  !  That  is  the  case,  of 
course;   but  you  understand  my  meaning." 

Madame  de  Grignau's  second  daughter, 
Pauline,  was  not  born  at  Paris,  as  Marie- 
Blanche  had  been,  and  it  was  long  before 
Madame  de  Sevigne  knew  her.  The  grand- 
mother seems  to  have  made  some  efforts  to 
avoid  becoming  attached  to  this  girl.  "  Do  I 
care  for  that  child?"  she  said,  denying  her- 
self  this  affection,  as  if  it  would  be  robbing 


1 48  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

her  daughter.  "  I  am  yours  above  all  else. 
You  know  how  far  I  am  from  that  dotage 
which  quickly  diverts  the  mother's  love  from 
the  children  to  the  grandchildren.  My  love  has 
stopped  short  at  the  first  stage,  and  I  am  fond 
of  these  little  ones  only  out  of  love  to  you." 
But  resistance  was  vain  ;  her  affectionate  nature 
was  too  strong  for  her.  She  was  surprised  to 
find  it  so:  "Could  it  really  be  possible  that 
I  should  still  find  room  for  more  love  and 
for  new  attachments?  "  But  at  the  same  time 
she  perceived  with  sadness  that  her  daughter's 
feeling  was  not  like  hers.  "  It  seems  to  me," 
she  said  straightforwardly,"  that  I  do  love  her, 
and  that  you  do  not  love  her  enough."  In 
fact,  the  mother  begins  to  find  in  Pauline  faults 
requiring  the  convent  for  their  correction,  and 
at  the  same  time  qualities  announcing  that  the 
girl  was  called  to  a  religious  life.  At  these 
tidings  Madame  de  Sevigne  becomes  first  un- 
easy and  then  angry;  the  girl  must  be  kept  at 
home,  even  if  it  be  necessary  to  marry  her  in 
Bearn^  or  not  to  marry  her  at  all;  they  must 
enjoy  the  pleasure  of  training  and  perfecting 
her  character.  And  the  grandmother  contin- 
ually repeats  this  exhortation,  which  sounds 
very  strange  to  us,  addressed  to  a  mother: 
"  Do  love,  do  love  Pauline."  The  reason  was 
1  The  nobility  of  Beam  were  proverbially  poor.  —  Tr. 


The  Work.  149 

that  Madame  dc  Grignan  then  had  a  son,  and 
that,  according  to  the  custom  in  noble  famihes, 
all  the  rest  of  the  children  were  to  be  sacrificed 
to  him.  But  mark  what  is  more  extraordinary- 
still.  This  son  of  whom  they  are  so  proud, 
and  whom  his  native  Provence  served  as  god- 
mother ;  ^  this  son  who  from  his  birth  took  the 
foremost  place  in  the  affections  of  the  family, 
for  whose  sake  they  intend  to  send  Pauline 
to  join  Marie-Blanche  in  her  Convent  of  Au- 
benas;  this  son,  so  long  as  he  is  a  child,  has 
no  attention  paid  to  him,  is  neglected,  is  ill- 
bred.  The  mother  leaves  him  at  Grignan  dur- 
ing her  journeys  to  Paris,  and  passes  years 
without  seeing  him;  even  when  she  is  at  home 
she  turns  him  over  to  the  servants,  and 
friends  inform  Madame  de  Sevigne  that  "  he 
is  being  badly  spoiled  by  the  valets."  The 
grandmother,  sending  good  advice  to  her 
daughter,  felt  the  need  of  adding  these  sig- 
nificant words:  "You  do  not  yet  understand 
a  mother's  love  any  too  well.  So  much  the 
better,    my    daughter;   it    is  violent." 

Perhaps  we  should  not  be  too  hard  with 
Madame  de  Grignan ;  she  only  did  as  others 
did.  Times  have  greatly  changed  since  then. 
People   in   our  day  no   longer    sacrifice  their 

1  He  was  held  at  the  christening  by  proxies  for  the  land 
of  Provence,  and  was  named  Louis-Provence.  —  Tr. 


150  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

children  to  one  another, — they  sacrifice  them- 
selves to  their  children.  The  children  are  no 
longer  left  among  the  servants  in  the  ante- 
chambers; they  are  brought  in  and  rule  the 
drawing-room;  they  have  become  the  mas- 
ters, often  the  tyrants,  of  the  family.  Al- 
though sometimes  the  consequence  attached 
to  them  is  a  trifle  excessive,  and  they  are 
tempted  to  abuse  it,  we  must  confess  that  it  is 
better  to  err  on  this  side  than  on  the  other, 
and  that,  in  this  respect  at  least,  our  social 
life  is  superior  to  that  of  our  fathers. 


II. 

It  is  probable  that  if  any  indiscretion  should 
permit  us  to  open  one  of  those  bulky  pack- 
ages of  letters  which  the  railroads  carry  every 
day  in  all  directions,  we  should  find  less  pleas- 
ure in  reading  them  than  we  suppose,  and 
should  at  once  be  impressed  with  the  monot- 
ony of  their  contents.  Life  making  the  same 
demands  upon  every  one,  and  running  in  the 
same  grooves,  it  follows  that  all  have  about 
the  same  things  to  tell  one  another.  Whether 
conversing  or  writing,  eighty  times  out  of  a 
hundred  they  make  inquiries  about  health  or 
talk  of  business.  These  are  the  ordinary  sub- 
jects of  letters;  and  we  shall  see  that  Madame 


The  Work.  151 

de  S6vign6,  notwithstanding  all  the  originality 
of  her  mind,  is  no  more  exempt  from  such 
commonplaces  than  others  are. 

As  she  had  long  been  very  well,  in  the 
earlier  letters  she  is  not  uneasy  about  her  own 
health,  but  about  that  of  others.  Causes  of 
anxiety  are  not  wanting;  it  seems  sometimes 
as  if  an  ill  wind  had  blown  upon  all  her 
friends.  Her  letters  are  full  of  sad  tidings : 
the  Cardinal  de  Retz  is  dying  at  Commercy; 
Madame  de  Lafayette  is  wasting  away  with  a 
slow  fever  by  the  side  of  La  Rochefoucauld, 
who  is  tied  to  his  chair  by  the  gout;  Cor- 
binelli  is  suffering  with  headaches  "verging 
on  frenzy,"  and  is  only  sustained  by  draughts 
of  potable  gold.  Besides  this  private  circle  of 
friends,  about  whom  Madame  de  Sevigne  is 
always  concerned,  there  are  less  familiar  ac- 
quaintances among  whom  disease  makes  many 
ravages.  At  St  Germain  and  Versailles,  where 
the  ground  was  constantly  turned  up  to  build 
palaces,  construct  terraces,  excavate  reservoirs, 
the  fever  abode  permanently.  Even  the  king 
and  his  family  did  not  escape  it ;  the  courtiers 
were  decimated,  and  those  who  resisted  the 
fever  succumbed  to  small-pox,  rheumatism, 
apoplexy.  Then  comes  the  "  numerous  com- 
pany of  hypochondriacs,"  fashionable  men 
and  women  wearied  by  late  hours,  worn  out 


1 5  2  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

by  pleasures,  sick  of  disappointed  ambitions 
and  blighted  hopes,  pained  by  their  own 
failures  and  by  the  success  of  others,  cause- 
lessly anxious,  aimlessly  excited,  attacked  by 
those  vague  indispositions  whose  effects  are 
all  the  harder  to  bear  because  the  symptoms 
seem  less  dangerous.  Amid  all  these  sickly 
bodies  stands  out  the  robust  form  of  the  Ger- 
man woman  ^  who  came  from  the  Palatinate  to 
take  the  vacant  place  of  Henrietta  d'Orleans 
at  the  Palais-Royal.  Broad-shouldered,  stout 
and  ruddy,  she  formed  a  strange  contrast  to 
all  these  frail,  lymphatic  women  living  on 
medicines.  "  When  her  physician  was  pre- 
sented to  her,  she  said  she  had  no  use  for  one, 
she  had  never  either  been  bled  or  purged; 
when  she  felt  ill,  she  went  two  leagues  on 
foot,  and  that  cured  her." 

After  having  long  been  anxious  about  all 
her  friends,  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  finally 
compelled  to  be  alarmed  about  herself.  At 
fifty  years  of  age  her  triumphant  health,  as 
she  called  it,  sustained  its  first  defeat.  While 
at  the  Rochers  estate  she  had  a  violent  attack 
of  rheumatism.  For  three  months  she  "  was 
tortured  to  the  point  of  screaming;"  but  her 

1  The  Princess  Palatine,  Charlotte  Elizabeth  of  Bavaria, 
second  wife  of  Philip,  Duke  of  Orleans,  the  brother  of 
Louis  XIV.  — Tr. 


The  Work.  153 

only  anxiety  was  to  reassure  her  daughter.  In 
each  of  her  letters,  dictated  to  her  son  or  to 
her  friends,  she  records  a  perceptible  improve- 
ment and  promises  a  speedy  cure ;  but  the 
cure  is  constantly  postponed,  and  when  she 
has  exhausted  all  remedies  she  makes  up  her 
mind  to  set  out  for  Vichy  to  try  its  waters. 

Out  of  the  letters  she  wrote  from  Vichy 
and  from  Bourbon  an  interesting  picture 
could  be  made  of  the  life  people  then  led 
at  watering  places.  It  was  not  brilliant  and 
delightful  as  it  is  to-day.  In  those  days 
people  were  not  accustomed  to  go  there  for 
pleasure.  "When  one  does  not  drink  the 
waters,"  said  Madame  de  Sevigne,  "  it  is 
tiresome."  Every  one's  chief  business  was, 
therefore,  to  take  care  of  himself.  In  the 
morning  they  took  the  waters.  "  At  six 
o'clock  we  go  to  the  fountain;  we  all  meet 
there,  drink,  and  make  a  wry  face;  for  just 
think  of  it,  boiling  hot,  and  with  a  very  disa- 
greeable taste  of  saltpetre.  We  turn  away,  we 
go  and  come,  we  take  a  walk,  we  hear  mass, 
we  compare  notes  confidentially  concerning  the 
effect  of  the  waters;  that  is  all  we  think  about 
till  noon."  Then  comes  the  douche,  a  much 
more  formidable  affair.  "  I  began  taking  the 
douche  to-day;  it  is  a  very  fair  rehearsal  of 
purgatory.     You  find  yourself  naked  in  a  little 


154  MadaJJte  de  Sevigne. 

underground  cell,  where  there  is  a  pipe  of  this 
hot  water  which  a  woman  lets  fly  over  you  where 
you  please.  ...  At  first  you  receive  the  shock 
everywhere,  to  rouse  all  your  spirits,  and  then 
it  is  applied  to  the  joints  affected ;  but  when 
it  comes  to  the  nape  of  the  neck  you  feel  such 
a  heat  and  shock  as  cannot  be  conceived. 
Nevertheless  this  is  the  main  point  of  the 
whole  matter.  All  must  be  endured,  and  you 
endure  it  all,  and  are  not  burned,  and  then 
get  into  a  warm  bed  where  you  sweat  pro- 
fusely, and  that  cures  you."  In  the  intervals 
there  were  calls  and  parties.  Madame  de 
Sevigne's  social  relations  were  so  extensive 
that  she  could  hardly  fail  to  meet  acquaint- 
ances whom  she  enjoyed  seeing  and  convers- 
ing with,  even  at  Vichy  and  Bourbon.  She 
found  there  too  among  the  number  some 
ridiculous  characters,  at  whose  expense  she 
occasionally  made  merry,  and  this  helped  to 
pass  the  time.  "  I  should  never  have  ex- 
pected to  see  at  Vichy  such  hideous  visages." 
There  was  Madame  de  Pequigny,  the  Cwnean 
Sibyl,  "  seeking  a  cure  for  the  seventy-six  years 
which  she  found  extremely  annoying. "  There 
was  a  Madame  de  la  Barois,  "  all  a-trcmble  with 
the  palsy ;  "  this  poor  woman,  after  twenty  years 
of  widowhood,  had  become  enamoured  of  a 
young  man  to  whom  she  gave  all  her  prop- 


The  Work.  155 

erty,  and  who  betrayed  her.  "  It  is  a  great 
good  fortune,"  Madame  de  Sevigne  had  said 
in  a  similar  case,  "  not  to  be  inch'ned  to  become 
infatuated  with  such  goslings ;  it  is  far  better 
to  let  them  seek  their  pasture  than  to  provide 
it  for  them."  There  too  was  the  Duchess  de 
Brissac,  a  very  pretty  and  very  stylish  woman, 
whose  mania  it  was  to  have  a  crowd  of  ad- 
mirers always  about  her.  Vichy  did  not  offer 
so  large  a  choice  of  adorers  as  Paris  or  Ver- 
sailles, but  necessity  made  this  duchess  less 
fastidious.  She  could  put  up  with  very  com- 
monplace conquests  ;  for  want  of  better  game, 
priests,  and  even  monks,  would  do.  "  You 
should  see  how  she  coquets  with  everybody, 
without  distinction  or  selection.  With  my  own 
eyes  I  saw  her  the  other  day  singeing  a  poor 
Celestine  monk."  Besides  the  pleasures  of  chat- 
ting with  her  friends  and  making  fun  of  her 
neighbors,  Madame  de  Sevigne  could  enjoy  a 
walk  through  the  neighboring  fields  when  she 
felt  strong,  and,  in  the  evening,  the  sight  of  the 
young  country  girls  who  came  to  dance  the 
boree  to  the  sound  of  the  fiddle  and  the  tam- 
bourine, "with  certain  free  antics  which  make 
the  parsons  scold."  These  were  pretty  much 
the  only  diversions  afforded  by  watering-places 
to  those  who  did  not  wish  to  risk  being  bored 
to  death  in  order  to  be  cured  of  their  diseases. 


156  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

It  will  surprise  nobody  that  Madame  de 
S6vign6,  who  so  long  as  her  health  was  good 
was  in  the  habit  of  declaring  her  utter  scorn 
of  physicians,  changed  her  tone  completely 
when  she  saw  her  daughter  sick  and  herself 
attacked  by  rheumatism.  Such  changes  are 
natural.  Thenceforward  her  correspondence 
is  full  of  advice  given  or  received,  of  talk 
about  diseases,  of  medical  consultations.  At 
every  turn  there  are  criticisms,  disquisitions, 
discussions;  mother  and  daughter  were  not 
always  of  the  same  opinion.  Madame  de 
Grignan  was  fond  of  chocolate;  Madame  de 
Sevigne  was  distrustful  of  it,  and  cited  fright- 
ful instances  of  its  injurious  effects :  "  La 
marquise  de  Coetlogon  prit  tant  de  chocolat, 
ctant  grosse  I'annee  passee,  qu'elle  accoucha 
d'un  petit  gargon  noir  comme  un  diable. 
qui  mourut."  Still  more  disputes  arose  over 
coffee.  Doctors  disagreed  as  to  the  effects 
it  produced.  "  Du  Chesne  abominates  it, 
Brother  Angelo  has  not  a  word  to  say 
against  it;  while  it  fattens  one,  it  makes  an- 
other lean."  What  was  to  be  done  in  such  a 
dilemma?  People  tried  to  render  the  drink 
harmless  by  pouring  in  cream  or  sweetening 
it  with  honey;  and  then,  as  they  thought  it 
still  harmful,  they  came  to  a  heroic  decision, 
—  they   banished    it   in    disgrace    from    their 


The  Work.  157 

tables.  Tea,  on  making  its  appearance  in 
society,  was  better  received.  "  The  princess 
takes  twelve  cups  every  day.  She  says  that 
it  cures  all  her  ills.  She  assured  me  that  his 
Highness  the  Landgrave  took  forty  cups  every 
morning.  '  Why,  Madame,  was  it  not  perhaps 
thirty  ? '  '  No,  forty ;  he  was  dying :  it  restored 
him  to  life  in  a  twinkling.'  "  If  her  daughter 
is  in  the  least  unwell,  Madame  de  Sevigne's 
imagination  takes  the  field.  Straightway  she 
seeks  out  all  the  physicians  she  can  find, 
and  after  the  physicians  all  the  quacks  and 
charlatans  of  the  day,  whose  name  was  legion. 
Everybody,  even  the  women,  pretended  to 
have  wonderful  secrets  capable  of  baffling  the 
most  obstinate  diseases.  Madame  Fouquet 
applied  to  the  dying  queen  a  plaster  which 
cured  her,  to  the  great  scandal  of  the  medical 
faculty,  who  had  given  her  up ;  the  Princess 
of  Taranto  dispensed  her  drugs  to  all  the 
people  of  Vitre.  "  She  is  the  best  doctor  in 
the  world ;  she  has  some  rare  and  precious 
prescriptions  of  which  she  gave  us  three  doses 
that  had  a  miraculous  efTect."  There  is  noth- 
ing so  amusing  as  to  hear  Madame  de  Sevigne 
when  she  has  just  been  talking  with  Fagon  or 
with  Du  Chesne.  She  is  full  of  her  subject, 
and  speaks  learnedly  in  professional  terms,  like 
one  of  Moli^rc's  doctors.     "  He  tells  me  that 


158  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

you  must  not  let  yourself  die  of  inanition. 
When  digestion  takes  too  long,  you  must  eat; 
this  consumes  a  remnant  that  merely  reeks 
and  putrefies  unless  you  heat  it  again  by  ali- 
mentation." Above  all,  she  begs  her  daughter 
to  take  care  of  herself,  and  sets  her  a  good 
example.  She  announces  that  she  has  been 
taking  medicine  to  please  her,  and  adds  in  a 
suppliant  tone:  "Pray,  do  as  much  for  me 
too."  By  every  post  she  sends  her  daughter 
new  remedies.  Some  are  as  mild  as  cherry 
cordial,  "  to  which  France  is  indebted  for  the 
preservation  of  M.  Colbert;"  or  periw^inkle 
tea,  which  restored  the  youth  of  Madame  de 
Grignan.  *'  When  you  returned  so  beautiful, 
people  said,  '  Why !  on  what  herb  has  she 
been  treading?  '  I  answered,  '  On  periwinkle.'  " 
There  are  other  nostrums,  such  as  viper  broth 
and  powdered  eyes  of  crayfish,  that  seem 
more  formidable.  But  what  follows  is  still 
more  extraordinary.  The  Capuchins,  who 
also  dabbled  in  physic,  doctored  Madame 
de  Sevigne's  leg  with  herbs  which  were  re- 
moved twice  a  day,  reeking  with  moisture,  and 
buried.  Then  just  in  proportion  as  they  de- 
cayed, the  place  to  wdiich  they  had  been 
applied  perspired  and  became  flexible.  Ma- 
dame de  S6vign6  did  not  doubt  the  efficacy 
of  this    remedy.     "  It  would   be  a  pity,"  she 


The  Work.  159 

wrote  to  her  daughter,  "  for  you  not  to  tell  this 
to  the  surgeons;  they  would  die  a-laughing; 
but  I  defy  them."  I  find  something  better 
still  in  the  Bussy  correspondence.  "  II  y  a 
ici  un  abbe,"  Madame  de  Scudery  wrote  to 
Bussy,  "  qui  fait  grand  bruit  et  qui  gudrit 
par  les  sympathies.  On  dit  qu'il  prend,  pour 
toutes  les  fievres,  de  I'urine  des  malades  dans 
laquelle  il  fait  noircir  un  oeuf  casse,  et  il  le 
donne  a  manger  a  un  chien.  II  pretend  que 
le  chien  mcurt  et  que  le  malade  guerit."  And 
she  adds  with  entire  confidence,  "  On  dit 
qu'il  guerit  force  gens."  Of  course  I  do  not 
mean  to  imply  that  we  no  longer  trust  to 
quacks,  and  that  odd  prescriptions  no  longer 
find  people  to  believe  in  them ;  yet  it  seems 
to  me  that  nowadays  witty  and  sensible  women 
like  Madame  de  Scudery  and  Madame  de  Se- 
vigne  would  be  a  little  more  distrustful  than 
they  were  of  the  Capuchins'  herbs  and  of  the 
abbe  who  cured  by  sympathy. 

III. 

Next  to  health,  what  occupies  most  space 
in  Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters  is  business. 
Throughout,  the  talk  is  of  the  pecuniary  em- 
barrassments that  were  felt,  and  of  the  devices 
employed  to  escape  them.     The  French  aris- 


i6o  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

tocracy  —  never  very  thrifty  —  was  then  on 
the  verge  of  ruin.  **  Nobody  has  a  cent  left," 
said  Madame  de  Sevigne ;  "  there  is  no  money 
to  be  borrowed."  This  was  the  common 
predicament.  The  great  lords,  allured  to 
the  court  of  the  king,  there  found  occasion  to 
spend  enormous  sums.  Worse  yet,  they  ac- 
quired luxurious  habits  which  they  carried 
away  with  them  and  transmitted  to  all  the 
inferior  gentry.  From  the  highest  to  the 
lowest  rank,  from  Versailles  to  the  humblest 
manor-house,  all  the  nobles  made  efforts  to 
eclipse  their  peers  and  to  rival  their  superiors, 
thus  making  fatal  drafts  upon  their  long-since 
crippled  fortunes. 

To  sustain  themselves  they  had  but  one 
resource,  —  the  bounty  of  the  king.  Without 
it  all  these  nobles,  having  nothing  left,  would 
have  been  reduced  to  "  eat  bread  made  of 
leaves  and  ferns."  Thus  the  dream  of  all 
these  hungry  people  was  to  secure  a  governor- 
ship, an  office  at  court,  or  at  least  a  pension 
or  some  gratuity.  For  such  emoluments  they 
fought  furiously  and  begged  shamelessly.  Re- 
ferring to  the  king,  Bussy  wrote  to  Madame 
de  S6vign6:  "I  shall  still  embrace  his  knees, 
and  so  often  as  finally,  perhaps,  to  reach  his 
purse."  His  daughter,  rather  ashamed  of  this, 
had  erased  the  end  of  the  sentence,  making  it 


The  Work.  i6i 

read,  "  reach  his  heart."     But  Bussy  was  not  so 
modest ;  he  had  the  true  beggar's  effrontery. 

These  sohcitations,  this  obsequiousness  and 
meanness,  sometimes  succeeded.  There  were 
favorites  who  made  immense  fortunes  at  this 
trade.  What  was  thus  earned  by  ministers, 
by  mistresses  and  their  tools,  by  flatterers, 
by  friends,  —  house-valets,  Saint-Simon  calls 
them,  —  is  incalculable.  Let  us  recall  what 
Coulanges  says  to  his  cousin  of  the  immense 
possessions  which  Madame  de  Louvois,  who 
was  at  the  time  his  hostess,  had  in  lower 
Burgundy  :  "  When  the  weather  is  fine  enough 
to  be  inviting,  we  take  long  trips  to  ascertain 
the  extent  of  these  domains ;  and  when  curi- 
osity leads  us  to  ask  the  name  of  the  first 
village,  we  say,  'Whose  is  it?'  and  are  an- 
swered, '  It  belongs  to  My  Lady.'  '  Whose 
is  that  one  farthest  distant?  '  —  'It  belongs  to 
My  Lady.'  '  But  that  other  one  I  see  away 
over  there?'  —  'It  belongs  to  My  Lady.' 
'  And  these  woods  ?  '  — '  They  belong  to  My 
Lady.'  '  What  an  extensive  plain  !  '  —  'It  be- 
longs to  My  Lady.'  '  I  behold  yonder  a 
fine  castle.'  — '  That  is  Nicei,  now  My  Lady's, 
a  large  estate  formerly  owned  by  the  ancient 
counts  of  that  name.'  '  What  is  that  other 
castle  on  the  height?  '  — '  That  is  Pacy,  which 
belongs  to  My  Lady,  and  descended  to  her 
II 


1 62  Madai7te  de  Sevio^7ie. 


^> 


from  the  family  of  Mandelot,  whence  sprang 
her  great-grandmother.'  In  a  word,  Madame, 
everything  in  this  country  belongs  to  '  My 
Lady ;  '  I  never  saw  possessions  so  extensive, 
nor  so  well  rounded  out."  But  this  was  an 
exceptional  case ;  others  waited  long  and 
made  many  applications,  only  to  receive  a 
paltry  reward  for  their  assiduity  and  their 
services.  Yet  they  were  not  discouraged ; 
they  kept  going  through  the  great  halls  at 
Versailles  and  putting  themselves  in  the  king's 
way  to  remind  him  of  their  existence.  As 
they  had  no  other  way  of  settling  their  affairs, 
they  desired  always  to  live  in  the  sunshine 
of  that  royal  bounty  to  which  they  looked 
for  their  material  salvation.  At  every  fresh 
instance  of  the  king's  liberality  to  his  favorites 
they  plucked  up  heart  and  said,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Madame  de  Sevigne :  "  We  must 
not  despair.  What  though  we  are  not  his 
body-servants;  if  we  pay  court  to  him,  he 
may  chance  to  let  some  droppings  fall  on  us." 

Madame  de  Sevigne  herself  was  rich.  She 
reckoned  up  one  day  for  her  daughter  that 
she  had  been  worth  some  five  hundred  and 
thirty  thousand  livres,^  a  sum  equivalent  in  our 
day  to  a  little  more  than  two  millions  of  francs. 
This   fine    fortune  would    scarcely  have   held 

1  The  Parisian  livre  was  twenty-five  sous,  or  cents.  —  Tr. 


The   Work.  163 

out  against  the  follies  of  M.  dc  Sevign6  if  he 
had  lived  longer.  The  money  slipped  quickly 
through  the  hands  of  this  licentious  and  prodi- 
gal husband.  When  he  died,  after  six  years 
of  wedded  life,  the  poor  widow  was  half 
ruined.  Fortunately  she  had,  to  help  her  out 
of  her  embarrassment,  the  skill  and  devotion 
of  her  uncle,  the  Abbe  de  Coulanges,  who  had 
been  her  tutor  and  was  now  her  steward. 

This  "  dear,  good  man,"  as  his  niece  called 
him,  is  an  odd  figure.  Though  he  did  not 
often  say  mass,  and  with  all  humility  blames 
himself  in  his  will  "  for  having  dishonored  and 
profaned  the  sanctity  of  his  calling  by  a  life 
too  much  div^erted  from  the  employments  to 
which  it  should  have  been  entirely  conse- 
crated," he  was  a  pious  man,  of  correct 
morals,  and  an  implicit  and  devout  believer 
"  who  shed  a  flood  of  tears  every  time  he 
received  the  host."  It  is  certain  that  the  pro- 
fession he  was  bred  to  suited  him  poorly.  His 
family  made  him  a  priest;  Nature  had  made 
him  rather  a  man  of  business.  To  keep  his 
accounts  correct  —  a  duty  which  many  regard 
as  somewhat  austere — was  to  him  a  diver- 
sion and  a  pleasure.  His  greatest  amusement 
consisted  in  manipulating  those  counters,  "  so 
trusty  and  so  true,"  by  whose  aid  he  did  his 
reckoning.     For  order  and  economy  there  was 


164  Madame  de  Scvigne. 

nobody  like  him ;    he   performed  all  sorts  of 
services  for  the  household.     He  made  leases, 
prosecuted    lawsuits,    looked    after   the  tenant 
farmers,  settled  accounts.     When  he  bargained 
with   the    dealers    he    always    obtained    better 
terms  than  anybody  else,   and    of  course   he 
was  very  proud  of  this.     It  was  he  who  one 
day  found  for  Madame  de  Grignan  those  lodg- 
ings, with  very  respectable   rooms,   a    coach- 
house, and  a  stable  for  six  horses,  all  for  five 
hundred  livres  a  year.  At  another  time,  Charles 
de  Sevigne  having  tried  to  bargain  for  a  boat 
to  take  his  mother  to  Nantes,  the  Abbe  had 
but  to  speak,  to  get  it  for  a  pistole  less  than 
his  nephew.     Along  with  so  many  good  quali- 
ties, he  had  some  odd  peccadilloes,  and  Madame 
de    Sevigne,  who,   despite    her  affection,   per- 
ceived them  clearly,  gives  us  a  highly  amus- 
ing portrayal  of  them.     In  the  first  place,  he 
sometimes    got  angry,    but  chiefly  with   false 
reasoners  and  bad  calculators.     "  When  arith- 
metic is  offended  against,  and  the  rule  of  tiuo 
and  tivo  make  four  is  in  any  respect  infringed, 
the  good   Abbe   is  beside  himself."     He   had 
not  a  very  brilliant  mind.     His  niece  travelling 
alone   with   him  on  her  way  to  the  Rochers 
estate,  and  knowing  very  well  that  she  must  not 
depend   too    much    upon    the    charms    of  his 
conversation,  had  provided  herself  with  a  good 


The  Work.  165 

book,  "The  Life  of  Cardinal  Commendon," 
translated  by  Flechier.  "  I  regard  it  as  very- 
fortunate,"  she  said  to  her  daughter,  "  that  I 
am  a  being  capable  of  thinking  and  reading; 
our  good  Abbe  alone  would  furnish  me  little 
entertainment:  you  know  that  he  is  quite 
taken  up  by  '  the  bright  eyes  of  his  cash-box.'  ^ 
But  while  he  looks  at  it  and  inspects  it  from 
all  points  of  view,  Cardinal  Commendon  keeps 
me  very  good  company."  The  Abbe  was  fond 
of  good  cheer,  and  liked  to  linger  at  table ; 
he  made  a  pretext  of  drinking  the  health  of 
Madame  de  Grignan,  and  when  the  wine  was 
good  he  expatiated  copiously  in  praise  of  it. 
While  accompanying  his  niece  to  Vichy  he  was 
so  well  treated  at  the  mansion  of  the  generous 
Guitaut  family  in  Burgundy,  and  indulged  in 
such  excellent  and  prolonged  repasts,  that 
Madame  de  Sevigne  made  him  drink  the 
waters,  "  to  empty  his  stomach,  which  he  had 
filled  to  repletion  at  Epoisses."  But  these 
pleasantries  did  not  prevent  her  from  express- 
ing all  the  gratitude  she  justly  owed  him.  On 
his  death  she  wrote  to  Bussy,  who  did  not  like 
him :  "  There  is  no  benefit  he  did  not  bestow 
upon  me.  He  extricated  me  from  the  straits 
I  was  in  at  the  death  of  M.  de  Sevigne.     He 

1  A  free  quotation  from  Moliere's  "  Miser,"  Act  v.  Scene 
iii.— Tr. 


1 66  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

gained  lawsuits,  he  put  my  estates  in  good 
condition,  he  paid  my  debts,  he  married  my 
children,  —  in  a  word,  it  is  to  his  constant  car5 
that  I  owe  the  peace  and  repose  of  my  life." 
And  returning  to  the  same  subject  two  months 
later,  she  again  eulogized  the  Abbe  to  Bussy, 
concluding  with  these  words :  "  He  lived  as 
a  man  of  honor,  he  died  as  a  Christian;  God 
grant  us  the  like  grace !  " 

The  niece  of  the  Abbe  de  Coulanges  was 
quite  worthy  of  him.  Her  taste  for  intellectual 
pleasures  did  not  deprive  her  of  business  tact. 
She  brought  to  business,  as  to  other  things,  a 
certain  acuteness  that  was  her  pride.  One  day 
we  see  her  rejoicing  that  she  had,  in  a  difficult 
case,  hit  upon  a  shrewd  expedient  of  which 
"  the  dear,  good  man "  had  not  thought. 
Racine,  writing  to  one  of  his  sons  who  affected 
the  airs  of  a  nobleman,  and  scattered  money 
without  counting  it,  said  to  him  with  charming 
good-nature:  "  The  rest  of  us,  honest,  domes- 
tic people,  act  with  more  simplicity,  and  think 
that  to  keep  a  strict  account  of  expenses  is 
not  beneath  a  man  of  honor."  On  this  point 
Madame  de  Sevigne  was  plebeian ;  and  at  the 
Rochers  chateau  the  book  is  still  shown  in 
which  she  kept  a  detailed  account  of  all  the 
expenses  of  her  household.  I  do  not  know 
that  she  could,  in  case  of  need,  have  taken  the 


The  Work,  167 

cook's  place ;  but  she  was  capable  of  over- 
seeing those  who  did  occupy  that  position, 
and  she  analyzes  their  merits  with  a  precision 
that  shows  she  knew  what  she  was  about.  Her 
daughter  having  charged  her  to  secure  a  cook 
for  Grignan,  she  replies:  "  We  dined  together, 
—  the  chevalier,  the  Abbe,  Corbinelli,  and  I, — 
and  gave  the  new  cook  something  of  a  trial. 
The  fricassee  was  good,  the  meat-pie  excel- 
lent ;  we  gave  a  little  advice  about  the  crust ; 
the  fried  fish  was  of  a  golden  color.  Really, 
I  believe  this  man  will  suit  you."  It  is  a 
pleasure  to  see  so  distinguished  a  woman  of 
the  world  so  expert  in  household  affairs. 

It  may  be  affirmed  that  Madame  de  Sevigne 
would  never  have  put  her  fine  fortune  in  jeop- 
ardy ;  but  her  children  took  care  to  do  it.  She 
was  obliged  to  buy  for  her  son  a  cornetcy 
and  then  a  sub-lieutenancy  in  the  Dauphin's 
guards,  —  offices  that  were  very  costly.  More- 
over, for  every  new  campaign  she  must  furnish 
him  a  new  equipment.  It  appears  that  some- 
times the  expense  seemed  to  her  a  little  too 
great,  since  Charles  de  Sevigne  had  recourse, 
on  one  occasion,  to  the  intervention  of  Ma- 
dame de  Lafayette  to  make  his  mother  relent. 
Madame  de  Lafayette  in  consequence  wrote 
the  following  letter,  which  Madame  de  Sevigne 
must  have  considered  rather  cool :  — 


1 68  Madame  de  Sevi^ne. 


i>' 


"  Your  son  has  just  left  here.  He  came  to  bid  me 
good-by,  and  to  beg  me  to  write  urging  upon  you 
his  arguments  with  regard  to  money.  They  are  so 
good  that  I  have  no  need  to  explain  them  to  you  at 
length,  for  you  see  from  where  you  are  the  costliness 
of  this  endless  campaign.  All  are  in  despair,  and  are 
making  ruinous  drafts  on  their  fortunes ;  your  son 
cannot  avoid  doing  somewhat  as  the  rest  do  :  and, 
besides,  your  great  affection  for  Madame  de  Grignan 
makes  it  necessary  and  proper  to  give  evidence  of 
some  love  for  her  brother." 

Charles  de  Sevigne  was  not  ruined  by  war 
alone ;  he  had  also  some  intervals  of  extrava- 
gance. La  Champmesle,  Ninon  de  Lcnclos, 
his  good  and  bad  fortunes  in  society,  cost  him 
a  great  deal.  Once  when  he  was  pressed  for 
money  and  dared  not  go  to  his  mother  for  it, 
he  sold  timber  from  the  manor  of  Le  Buron, 
which  he  owned.  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  very 
angry  when  she  learned  it,  and  her  ill-humor 
overflows  in  a  stream  of  mythology.  "Yes- 
terday I  was  at  Le  Buron,"  she  wrote  to  her 
daughter,  "and  returned  last  night.  I  almost 
wept  when  I  saw  the  damage  done  to  this  estate. 
There  had  stood  the  oldest  wood  in  the  world  ; 
my  son,  on  his  recent  journey,  gave  it  the  last 
fatal  axe-strokes.  He  realized  from  it  four  hun- 
dred pistoles,  of  which  a  month  later  he  had  not 
a  cent  left.  .  .  .  My  dear,  you  must  put  up  with 


The  Work.  169 

all  this.  All  those  Dryads  in  distress  that  I  saw 
yesterday,  all  the  old  wood-gods,  not  knowing 
now  whither  to  turn,  all  the  ancient  crows  that 
had  made  their  abode  for  two  hundred  years 
in  the  shady  horror  ^  of  this  wood,  the  owls 
that  in  this  obscure  shade  announced  by  their 
bodeful  cries  the  misfortunes  of  men,  —  all 
these  yesterday  made  me  complaints,  touching 
my  heart  to  the  quick." 

But  her  daughter  cost  her  dearer  still.  The 
great  lord  whom  she  had  married  was  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor of  Provence,  and  occupied  in 
that  country  the  place  of  the  absentee  Gov- 
ernor, the  Duke  de  Vendome.  As  M.  de 
Grignan  had  lofty  sentiments  and  liked  to 
maintain  the  dignity  of  his  station  without 
counting  the  cost,  the  expenses  attending  his 
high  position  were  greater  than  the  receipts. 
His  fortunes  were  already  much  broken  when 
he  married  his  third  wife,  Mademoiselle  de 
Sevigne;  and  unfortunately  this  wife  was  not 
the  woman  to  repair  broken  fortunes.  Even 
prouder  and  more  infatuated  with  her  rank 
than  was  her  husband,  she  only  hastened  his 
ruin. 

After  visiting  what  is  left  of  Grignan 
Castle,   it  is  easy  to   form  some  idea   of  the 

1  Madame  de  Sevigne  seems  to  have  in  miud  Vergil's 
"horrenti  .  .  .  umbra"  {/Eneid,  i.  165).  —  Tr. 


I/O 


Madame  de  Sevizne. 


i>' 


grand  life  they  led  in  these  sumptuous  abodes, 
and  the  expenses  of  every  kind  which  were 
the  inevitable  consequence.  Grignan  is  built 
upon  an  eminence  towering  from  the  midst  of 
a  vast  plain.  The  rock  has  been  cut  away, 
flanked  with  masonry,  surrounded  with  walls, 
to  form  the  sort  of  inaccessible  substructure 
on  which  the  castle  is  erected.  Along  the 
steep  sides  of  the  rock  wind  narrow  streets, 
facing  which  are  the  houses  of  a  wretched  vil- 
lage, apparently  clinging  there  to  live  in  peace 
under  powerful  protection.  The  entrance  to 
the  castle  is  defended  by  a  massive  fortifica- 
tion, pierced  with  loopholes  and  flanked  by  two 
crenellated  towers.  When  once  the  gate  has 
been  opened,  and  we  are  admitted  within,  the 
scene  changes,  —  the  fortress  becomes  a  palace. 
Unfortunately  this  fortress  is  to-day  almost 
entirely  levelled  to  the  ground,  nothing  re- 
maining but  some  masses  of  wall  and  some 
ruined  halls ;  but  these  ruins  are  characterized 
by  rare  magnitude  and  elegance.  The  walls 
are  pierced  by  spacious  windows  set  between 
slender  pillars,  recalling  the  Renaissance. 
Within  are  seen  the  supports  of  vaults,  friezes 
finely  sculptured,  fragments  of  artistic  fire- 
places. The  magnitude  of  these  ruins  gives 
us  an  idea  of  the  extensiveness  of  the  build- 
ings.    When  we  try  to    reconstruct   them  in 


The  Work,  171 

thought  and  to  picture  the  castle  as  it  was, 
we  cannot  help  being  impressed  by  the  wide 
facades  and  by  the  great  number  of  halls  and 
chambers  provided.  Around  about,  a  paved 
terrace  permits  the  enjoyment  of  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  prospects,  —  a  rich  plain 
dotted  with  villages,  country-seats,  castles,  and 
shut  in  on  all  sides  by  high  mountains,  Mount 
Lance,  the  jagged  Alps,  and  snowy  IMount 
Ventoux  on  the  horizon. 

Everything  about  this  splendid  abode  was 
adapted  to  foster  the  pride  of  its  master  and 
to  give  him  a  lofty  notion  of  his  importance. 
Everything  seemed  to  impose  upon  him  the 
duty  of  maintaining  his  high  rank  and  of  keep- 
ing up  the  magnificence  of  his  ancestors.  To 
people  these  great  halls  and  give  life  to  this 
immense  castle  required  always  a  numerous 
and  brilliant  throng.  The  master's  family, 
with  their  relatives  and  most  intimate  friends, 
the  officers,  gentlemen,  and  pages  in  waiting 
upon  the  governor,  of  themselves  made  up  a 
considerable  company ;  there  were  from  eighty 
to  a  hundred  persons  whose  permanent  home 
was  in  the  castle.  Add  to  these  the  invited 
guests  who  came  from  all  parts  of  the  prov- 
ince and  from  the  neighboring  provinces,  and 
who  were  received  with  sumptuous  hospitality. 
Friends  or  mere   acquaintances   were    lodged 


1 7  2  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

in  the  castle,  with  their  servants  and  equi- 
pages. It  was  "  an  inn  "  which  was  never 
empty.  Three  tables  had  to  be  set  in  the 
great  hall,  and  they  were  always  full;  this  is 
what  Madame  de  Sevigne  calls  "  the  cruel  and 
continual  good  cheer  of  Grignan,"  against 
which  no  fortune  could  hold  out.  After  this 
crowd  had  been  fed,  it  must  be  amused;  ac- 
cordingly all  kinds  of  entertainment  were  fur- 
nished, —  even  the  opera ;  and  some  pride  was 
taken  in  the  rendition  of  Lulli's  most  recent 
airs.  Guests  were  especially  invited  to  gam- 
ble, and  the  gaming-table  was  one  of  the 
scourges  of  these  lordly  idlers.  They  imitated 
their  superiors;  the  court  at  Versailles  was 
much  addicted  to  gambling,  and  if  some  ex- 
pert hands  like  Dangeau  or  Langlee  gained 
at  play  considerable  fortunes,  most  people 
were  ruined.  Madame  de  Montespan  lost  four 
hundred  thousand  pistoles  in  a  single  night 
at  the  game  of  basset ;  and  the  king's  brother, 
having  incurred  a  debt  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  crowns,  was  obliged  to  pawn  his 
gold  plate.  Spreading  from  Versailles,  this 
mania  pervaded  Paris  and  the  provinces.  At 
Grignan  they  played  deep  ;  and  Grignan's  mas- 
ters, persisting  in  going  deeper  than  the  rest, 
thus  finally  went  to  ruin. 

Madame  de  Sevigne's  sentiments  regarding 


The  Work.  173 

this  ruinous  magnificence  were  divided.     She 
could  not  quite  keep  down  a  sort  of  maternal 
pride  when  she  was  told  of  the  splendid  recep- 
tions  of  Grignan.     It  pleased  her  to  imagine 
the    fair    countess    reigning    like    a    queen    of 
Provence   "  in   her  castle   of  Apolidon."     But 
her  good  sense    quickly   regained    the    upper 
hand.     She  looked  forward  with  horror  to  the 
disasters   M'hich   these    lavish    expenses    must 
bring  on.     To  her  daughter,  who,  to  calm  her, 
minimizes  the  sum  total  of  her  losses  at  play, 
she    replies  with  great   prudence   that  "  little 
showers  make  bad  roads ;  "  to  her  son-in-law, 
always  anxious  about  appearances,  and  desir- 
ous of  carrying  to  Paris  some  of  the  pomp  of 
Grignan,  she  wrote  that  six  lackeys  would  be 
enough  for  his  wife  and  him,  with  six  horses 
for  the  equipages,  and  a  single  body-servant. 
Above  all  he  must  not  bring  pages.     "  They 
are  provincial  wares  which  are  of  no  use  here." 
When  she  sees  that  she  is  not  listened  to,  and 
that  expenses  go  on  as  before,  she  at  last  loses 
patience.     At  first  she  blames  her  son-in-law : 
"  M.  de  Grignan's  mania  for   borrowing   and 
for  pictures   and   for  furniture   is  such   as  no 
one  would  believe  without  seeing  it.     Plow  can 
that  be  made  to  harmonize  with  his  birth,  his 
pride,  and  the  love  that  is  your  due?     Does 
he  think  that  he  cannot  weary  your  patience, 


1 74  Madame  de  Scvigne. 

and  that  it  is  inexhaustible?  Has  he  no  pity 
for  you,  and  does  he  think  we  will  believe 
he  loves  you  ?  A  fine  pretence  of  affection  !  " 
Then  she  grows  angry  with  both  of  them : 
"  There  are  now  no  bounds  to  this ;  two 
spendthrifts  together,  the  one  demanding  every- 
thing and  the  other  approving  everything,  are 
enough  to  ruin  the  world.  And  was  the  grand- 
eur and  power  of  this  house  not  a  world  in 
itself?  I  have  no  words  to  tell  you  what  I 
think;  my  heart  is  too  full.  But  what  are 
you  going  to  do?  I  do  not  at  all  understand 
how  you  will  provide  for  the  present  and  the 
future.  What  will  happen  when  a  certain 
point  is  reached?  ...  In  a  word,  this  is  kill- 
ing me ;  all  the  more  because  there  is  no  help 
for  it." 

As  we  advance  in  our  reading  of  this  cor- 
respondence, we  feel  that  times  are  getting 
harder  for  everybody.  Wars  are  endless  and 
inglorious ;  money  becomes  scarcer,  the  gen- 
eral poverty  increases,  this  whole  great  nobil- 
ity is  at  the  last  shift.  Bussy,  who  boasted  at 
the  beginning  of  his  exile  that  he  had  paid 
debts  amounting  to  one  hundred  thousand 
crowns,  can  no  longer  meet  his  current  ex- 
penses, and  his  unpaid  creditors  attach  his 
income.  When  Madame  de  La  Roche  gives 
him  a  picture  of  the  general  distress  at  Paris, 


The  Work.  175 

he  replies  with  cruel  bitterness :  "  I  think 
affairs  are  managed  much  better  than  they 
were  ten  years  ago,  Madame;  there  were 
then  thousands  and  thousands  of  people  who 
had  as  good  cheer  as  the  king,  and  enjoyed 
as  much  pleasure  as  he.  Now,  all  this  is  re- 
served for  the  mouth  of  the  master.  No  one 
has  money  or  tidbits ;  each  is  reduced  to  his 
plain  piece  of  beef  with  his  wife ;  is  not  that 
proper?  " 

By  that  time  M.  de  Grignan  had  long  been 
obliged  to  live  by  shifts.  One  loan  was  met 
by  another  at  more  exorbitant  rates.  The 
creditors  became  angry  and  made  terrible 
scenes.  One  tradeswoman  of  Paris,  Madame 
Renie,  had  even  the  courage  to  travel  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  leagues  to  demand  her  money, 
and  made  a  sudden  onslaught  upon  Grignan, 
like  one  of  the  furies.  These  distressing  inci- 
dents did  not  prevent  everything  from  going 
on  as  usual;  they  led  a  life  of  pleasure,  they 
kept  open  house  for  all  Provence,  they  equipped 
companies  for  their  son  when  he  set  out  for 
the  wars.  It  is  always  astonishing  to  see  how 
people  wholly  ruined  find  means  to  keep  afloat 
for  several  years  with  nothing  to  depend  on, 
and  how  without  fortune,  and  well-nigh  without 
credit,  they  continue,  nobody  knows  in  what 
way,  to  live  high   and  cut  a  great   figure  in 


176  Madame  de  Scvigne. 

society.  Madame  de  Sevigne  remarks,  con- 
cerning what  she  calls  the  beggary  of  the 
courtiers :  "  They  have  never  a  cent,  and  yet 
proceed  with  all  their  travels,  all  their  cam- 
paigns, follow  all  the  fashions,  attend  all  the 
balls,  all  the  racing  rings,  all  the  lotteries,  and 
go  on  forever,  although  utterly  undone."  But 
so  ticklish  is  their  condition  that  the  least 
event  suffices  to  disclose  their  ruin  and  make 
it  irreparable.  "  It  is  a  fabric  that  we  dare 
not  touch  for  fear  of  upsetting  everything." 
What  upset  everything,  in  M.  de  Grignan's 
case,  was  the  bankruptcy  of  the  treasurer  of 
Provence.  As  this  treasurer  was  interested  in 
standing  well  with  the  lieutenant-governor,  he 
had  advanced  M.  de  Grignan  the  revenues  of 
his  office  for  no  less  than  three  years.  M.  de 
Grignan  was  required  to  pay  it  back  all  at 
once;  pressed  by  creditors,  and  no  longer  able 
to  borrow,  the  unhappy  man  was  obliged  to 
avow  his  distress  to  the  minister,  M.  de  Pont- 
chartrain,  in  a  letter  closing  with  these  words  : 
"  I  am  without  anything  to  live  on." 

IV. 

What  did  the  poor  mother  do  to  relieve 
this  distress?  Having  already  given  many  un- 
heeded counsels,  she  was  not  satisfied  in  such 


The  Work.  177 

urecnt  cases  with  a  little  trite  condolence: 
she  aided  her  daughter  so  far  as  fortune  al- 
lowed her;  and  that  this  aid  might  be  more 
abundant,  she  left  Paris,  despite  the  ties  that 
bound  her  there  and  the  friends  who  wished 
to  detain  her,  and  went  bravely  to  live  a  life 
of  thrift  at  her  country-seat. 

The  reasons  which  then  brought  the  great 
lords  to  their  castles  were  not  the  same  as 
those  which  move  the  wealthy  people  of  our 
own  time  to  leave  Paris  at  stated  intervals. 
We  have  acquired  the  habit  of  dividing  the 
year  into  two  parts:  we  pass  the  winter  in 
the  city  and  the  summer  in  the  country.  This 
is  a  method  of  introducing  a  little  more  variety 
into  our  lives,  which  would  be  monotonous  if 
we  always  stayed  in  the  same  place.  We  go 
to  the  country  to  rest  from  the  fatigues  of 
society,  to  enjoy  a  purer  air,  to  find  there 
other  sights  and  other  pleasures.  But  in  those 
days  such  regular  removals  were  scarcely  pos- 
sible, because  of  the  difficulty  of  travelling. 
Only  those  who  possessed  some  estate  near 
Paris  could  indulge  themselves  in  this  way. 
Madame  de  Sevigne  had  this  somewhat  rare 
good  fortune.  Thanks  to  her  uncle,  "the 
dear,  good  man "  who  was  priest  at  Livry, 
she  had  at  her  disposal  a  place  for  rest  and 
retirement  that  she  could  reach  in  a  few  hours. 


178  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

She  was  pleased  with  everything  at  Livry,  — 
the  clearness  of  the  days,  the  coolness  of  the 
nights,  the  pure  and  wholesome  air  "  that  did 
her  as  much  good  as  milk,"  the  noise  of  birds, 
so  refreshing  to  her  after  the  dismal  Parisian 
street-cries,  the  pleasant  garden  with  the  balmy 
fragrance  of  honeysuckles,  and  the  sight  of  the 
"  sweet  little  landscape  "  encircling  all.  Every- 
where else  the  rain  annoyed  her,  "  This  cease- 
less rain!  "  she  wrote  from  Burgundy;  "I  am 
in  a  rage  about  it."  At  Livry,  where  nothing 
disagreeable  could  exist,  even  the  rains  were 
charming.  So  she  was  happy  every  time  she 
could  go  thither.  She  takes  her  daughter  with 
her,  and  the  dearest  friends  she  has,  to  enjoy 
them  all  to  herself;  nor  does  she  object  to 
being  there  alone.  She  goes  thither  at  all 
seasons :  during  Holy  Week,  to  collect  her 
thoughts  and  prepare  to  receive  the  sacra- 
ment; in  spring  and  summer,  to  enjoy  the 
fine  weather.  This  is  the  cure  for  all  her 
weary  cares,  for  all  her  sorrows.  "  When  I 
am  out  of  temper  I  must  be  off  to  Livry." 
Nothing  was  easier  than  to  get  there.  Livry 
is  only  about  three  leagues  from  Paris,  and  she 
could  stay  there  for  a  few  days  at  any  time ; 
but  when  she  thought  of  going  to  her  estates 
in  Burgundy  or  Brittany  she  must  expect  a 
long,  costly,  toilsome  journey,  not  to  be  un- 


The  Work.  179 

dergone  for  a  stay  of  a  few  weeks,  nor  under- 
taken every  year.  To  induce  her  to  take  it 
required  other  motives  than  a  desire  for  a 
change  of  scene ;  and  as  she  was  loath  to  set 
forth  on  her  journey  back,  when  once  she  had 
gone  she  remained  long  away. 

Madame  de  Sevigne  did  not,  then,  travel  the 
hundred  leagues  between  Paris  and  the  Rochers 
estate  entirely  for  pleasure.  She  would  prob- 
ably have  thought  such  pleasure  somewhat 
dearly  bought.  She  went  thither  out  of  duty,  — 
for  a  closer  inspection  of  her  property,  to  settle 
some  business,  and,  above  all,  to  repair  the 
breaches  that  Parisian  life  had  made  in  her 
fortune.  "  I  do  not  know  in  what  condition 
you  find  your  estates,"  she  wrote  one  day  to 
Bussy.  "  As  for  me,  Cousin,  my  estate  at 
Bourbilly  has  brought  me  scarcely  anything, 
on  account  of  the  low  prices  and  poor  market 
for  wheat  and  other  grains.  Residing  there 
is  the  only  thing  that  can  save  us  from  pov- 
erty." And  Bussy  replied :  "  Get  yourself 
exiled,  Madame,  —  the  thing  is  less  difficult 
than  people  imagine, —  and  you  will  find  a  use 
for  the  produce  of  Bourbilly."  She  went  in- 
to exile  when  there  was  need  of  it;  without 
waiting  for  an  order  from  the  king,  she  set 
out  bravely  for  some  distant  estate  and  stayed 
there  sometimes  a  whole  year,  consuming  her 


1 80  Madame  de  Scvigne. 

income  on  the  spot,  and  getting  in  the  money 
due  her.  Her  hopes  in  this  regard  proved 
often  delusive,  as  we  see  from  the  following 
story  she  tells  her  daughter :  "  This  morning 
a  peasant  came  in  with  wallets  everywhere 
about  him;  he  had  them  under  his  arms,  in 
his  pockets,  in  his  breeches.  The  good  Abbe, 
who  goes  straight  to  the  point,  thought  we 
were  set  up  for  life.  '  Ah,  my  friend,  you 
are  well  loaded  down !  How  much  have  you 
brought?*  'Sir,'  said  he,  gasping  for  breath, 
'  I  believe  there  is  a  good  thirty  francs.'  He 
had,  my  dear,  all  the  coppers  in  France,  which 
have  taken  refuge,  with  their  peaked  hats,  in 
this  province  to  try  our  patience,"  Yet  with 
her  usual  skill  she  finally  arranged  everything, 
increased  the  rent  of  her  farms,  adjusted  ac- 
counts with  her  debtors,  and  returned  to  Paris 
richer  than  when  she  left  it.  Everybody  ad- 
mired her  prudent  management;  for,  according 
to  her  friend  Lenet's  witty  couplet,  — 

"  What  motive  is  there  of  more  pertinence 
For  rural  life,  than  doubling  of  one's  rents  ? " 

Nowadays  wc  go  from  Paris  to  Vitre  in  seven 
hours ;  this  journey  took  Madame  de  Sevign6 
eight  or  nine  days,  and  sometimes  more,  in 
case  she  stopped  on  the  way  in  some  friendly 
abode.     At  best,  they  made  no  more  than  ten 


The  Work. 


181 


leagues  a  day.  The  turnout  was  worthy  of 
My  Lady  the  Marchioness.  "  I  travel  with 
two  coaches,"  she  said  to  her  daughter.  "  I 
have  seven  coach-horses,  a  pack-horse  to  carry 
my  bed,  and  three  or  four  mounted  men.  I 
shall  be  in  my  coach,  drawn  by  my  two  fine 
horses ;  the  Abbe  will  sometimes  be  with  me. 
In  the  other  coach,  which  will  have  four  horses 
and  a  postilion,  will  be  my  son,  La  Mousse, 
and  Helen."  Her  retinue  is,  as  we  see,  a  re- 
spectable one ;  but  others  were  often  more 
extensive.  Madame  de  Montespan,  when  she 
went  to  take  the  waters  at  Vichy,  travelled  as 
follows:  "She  goes  with  her  coach  and  six, 
accompanied  by  Thianges's  little  daughter ;  be- 
hind her  she  has  a  coach  with  the  same  number 
of  horses,  and  containing  six  maids.  She  has 
two  baggage-wagons,  six  sumpter-mules,  and 
ten  or  twelve  horse-guards  without  officers : 
her  retinue  consists  of  forty-five  persons."  As 
the  road  was  long,  they  planned  how  to  while 
away  the  time.  Madame  de  Sevignc  took  care 
to  select  agreeable  companions ;  she  carried 
along  in  her  coach  books  that  she  liked  ;  they 
chatted,  they  re-read  Corncille  or  Nicole,  and 
from  time  to  time  they  viewed  the  landscape. 
Madame  de  Sevigne  had  often  passed  along 
these  beautiful  banks  of  the  Loire,  and  with 
very  various  feelings:   once  with  her  husband, 


1 82  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

when  he  brought  her  to  Brittany  for  the  first 
time,  in  the  joy  and  beauty  of  her  youth  ;  later 
on,  with  the  son  and  daughter  of  whom  she 
was  so  proud.  Long  after,  when  she  revisited 
these  scenes  alone,  she  discovered  in  them 
new  beauties,  and  she  seemed  never  really  to 
have  seen  them  before.  "  There  are  periods 
in  life,"  she  said,  "  when  self  is  the  only  thing 
we  see,"  On  the  whole,  these  trips  were  not 
tiresome;  and  Madame  de  Sevigne  gives  us 
such  pleasing  descriptions  of  them  that  we 
who  are  unfamiliar  with  these  interminable 
journeys  are  sometimes  tempted  to  regret 
them. 

At  last  comes  the  arrival  at  Vitre,  and  then 
at  the  Castle  of  Les  Rochers,  only  about  four 
miles  from  town.  Imagine  how  Madame  de 
Sevigne's  heart  must  have  throbbed  when  her 
coach  entered  the  great  square  before  the  cas- 
tle. Here  she  found  the  servants  and  vassals 
assembled  to  welcome  her.  Once,  she  tells 
us,  her  steward,  Vaillant,  had  prepared  a  sort 
of  triumphal  entry  for  her  son ;  he  had  got 
together  more  than  fifteen  hundred  men-at- 
arms,  all  in  holiday  attire,  with  neckties  of 
fresh  ribbon.  This  old  nobility,  so  degraded 
and  humiliated  at  Versailles,  sacrificed  in  favor 
of  lawyers  or  financiers,  cringing  before  de- 
partment clerks,  raised  its  head  on  approaching 


The  Work.  183 

its  home,  and  recovered  a  sense  of  its  former 
greatness. 

The  Castle  of  Les  Rochers  still  stands,  and 
there  has  not  been  very  much  change  in  its 
appearance  since  Madame  de  Sevigne  dwelt 
there.  It  is  a  building  composed  of  two  rec- 
tangular wings  attached  to  a  central  tower  dat- 
ing from  the  fifteenth  century.  Its  appearance 
is  simple  and  noble ;  there  is  no  useless  orna- 
mentation ;  the  single  tower,  with  its  elegant 
roof,  its  belfries,  and  its  turrets,  is  very  com- 
manding. Toward  the  left  stands  out  an  iso- 
lated rotunda,  connected  with  the  castle  only 
by  the  garden  wall  and  gate.  This  is  the 
chapel,  and  was  built  by  the  Abbe  de  Cou- 
langes.  Poor  Abbe  !  notwithstanding  his  thrifty 
turn,  he  was  possessed  by  one  innocent  pas- 
sion,—  the  passion  for  building.  "  His  hands 
itch  to  be  at  it,"  said  his  niece ;  and  from  time 
to  time,  when  there  was  no  help  for  it,  she 
allowed  him  to  erect  a  wall.  It  must  be  con- 
fessed that  in  this  instance  he  did  not  much 
abuse  his  privilege.  His  circular  edifice  is 
very  modest,  and  from  a  distance  might  easily 
be  taken  for'  a  mere  dove-cot. 

Between  the  chapel  and  the  castle  a  gate 
opens  into  the  flower-garden.  We  may  im- 
agine Madame  de  Sevigne  eagerly  hastening 
thither  when  scarcely  rested  after  the  journey. 


184  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

What  she  hked  best  at  Les  Rochers  was  not 
the  castle  itself,  —  she  was  used  to  more  elegant 
abodes, — but  the  garden  and  the  park.  She 
enjoys  nothing  more  heartily  than  taking  care  of 
them  ;  she  makes  endless  changes,  adorns  them, 
brings  them  into  conformity  to  the  taste  of  the 
day.  She  began  by  pulling  up  those  edgings  of 
dwarf  box  that  were  so  delectable  in  the  eyes  of 
the  courtiers  of  Louis  XIII. ;  she  increased  the 
number  of  grass-plots  ;  and  she  filled  the  whole 
so  full  of  jasmine-vines  and  orange-trees  that  in 
the  evening,  when  the  air  was  fragrant  with  their 
blossoms,  she  imagined  herself  in  Provence. 
As  soon  as  Le  Notre  had  gained  a  reputation 
in  the  art  of  landscape-gardening,  she  engaged 
designs  and  plans  of  him.  When  they  were 
carried  out,  and  Les  Rochers  had  begun  to 
look  like  a  little  Versailles,  she  beheld  her 
work  with  satisfaction.  "This,"  she  wrote  to 
her  daughter,  "  is  something  that  our  garden 
of  holly  would  never  have  dreamed  of  becom- 
ing." From  the  garden  we  pass  to  the  park, 
which  is  extensive  and  well  laid  out.  It  is 
here  more  than  anywhere  else  that  Madame 
de  Sevigne's  memory  is  preserved.  The  ave- 
nues of  trees  she  planted  still  exist,  and  the 
guide  repeats  to  you  the  names  she  gave  these 
shady  walks.  Here  is  the  Solitary  Walk,  the 
Endless  Walk,  winding   about  to  an  invisible 


The  Work.  185 

termination ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  Mall, 
straight  and  broad,  ending  in  a  kind  of  square 
from  which  the  eye  can  take  in  the  whole 
landscape.  The  Rochers  estate  is  in  the  midst 
of  a  basin  of  considerable  extent,  rising  grad- 
ually toward  its  outer  edges.  There  is  neither 
that  varied  surface  nor  those  grand  or  sudden 
changes  of  prospect  that  we  now  delight  in,  — 
no  river  crossing  the  plain,  no  steep  mountain 
hemming  it  in.  It  is  a  peaceful  landscape, 
which  the  spectator  enjoys  calmly,  gaining 
from  it  a  tranquil  mind.  Trees,  close  together, 
and  crowded  with  leaves,  furnish  its  main 
characteristic.  Even  to  the  verge  of  the  hori- 
zon nothing  else  is  to  be  seen,  and  we  could 
imagine  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  a  forest. 
Madame  de  Sevigne,  having  the  sure  eye  of  a 
careful  observer,  was  impressed  not  only  by 
the  abundance  of  the  trees,  but  also  by  the 
dark  intensity  of  their  verdure.  "  The  green 
of  the  woods  is  even  more  beautiful  than  at 
Livry."  The  correctness  of  this  remark  may 
be  verified  by  visiting  the  pretty  park  at  Vitre, 
or  by  viewing  the  plains  about  Rennes,  from 
the  heights  of  Thabor. 

Life  at  Les  Rochers  was  austerely  simple 
and  regular.  Upon  one  of  the  last  visits  Ma- 
dame de  Sevign^  made  to  her  old  castle  after 
her  son's  marriage,  she  described  to  Madame 


1 86  Madame  de  Sevip-ne. 

de  Grignan  the  way  they  spent  their  days. 
It  was,  to  be  sure,  a  day  when  she  was  left 
alone  with  her  daughter-in-law,  the  "dear  lit- 
tle friend  "  being  absent.  "  We  rise  at  eight 
o'clock :  very  often  I  go  to  breathe  the  cool 
air  of  the  woods  until  the  bell  rings  for  mass 
at  nine;  after  mass  we  dress,  bid  each  other 
good-morning,  gather  orange-flowers,  take  din- 
ner; until  five,  we  work  or  read, —  now  my  son 
is  away  I  read  to  save  his  wife's  weak  chest. 
At  five  I  leave  her ;  I  am  off  to  these  lovely 
avenues,  with  a  lackey  to  follow  me ;  I  have 
books ;  I  go  from  place  to  place  and  vary  the 
turns  of  my  walks ;  I  take  now  a  devotional 
book,  now  an  historical,  — turn  about,  to  give 
variety,  —  musing  a  little  on  God  and  his  provi- 
dence, possessing  my  soul,  thinking  of  the 
future ;  at  last,  toward  eight  o'clock,  I  hear  a 
bell,  —  it  rings  for  supper.  .  .  .  My  dear  child, 
you  are  the  only  thing  I  prefer  to  the  mel- 
ancholy and  calm  repose  that  I  here  enjoy." 
This  is  a  very  monotonous  hfe ;  it  is,  however, 
sometimes  brightened  up  by  some  unforeseen 
incident.  In  the  first  place,  visitors  frequently 
came,  —  doubtless  not  always  agreeable  ones. 
"  You  who  have  never  stirred  out  of  Paris," 
said  Bussy,  "  don't  know  what  provincial  rus- 
ticity is."  Yet  there  were  some  among  the 
number  whom    it  was  a  dclicrht  to  welcome. 


The  Work.  187 

Intelligent  people  can  be  found  everywhere, 
with  whom  a  few  moments  can  be  spent  agree- 
ably. Sometimes  very  great  personages  honor 
the  Marchioness  with  their  company,  —  for  ex- 
ample, the  Princess  of  Taranto,  the  Duke  de 
Chaulnes,  the  IVIarquis  de  Lavardin,  Lieuten- 
ant-Governor of  Brittany.  The  latter,  in  the 
absence  of  the  Governor,  takes  delight  in  dis- 
playing all  the  pomp  of  power;  he  comes 
accompanied  by  his  officers,  by  his  guards, 
preceded  by  trumpeters,  followed  by  twenty 
gentlemen  as  an  escort;  and  all  this  puts  the 
peaceful  castle  in  an  uproar.  In  her  turn,  the 
Marchioness  was  of  course  obliged  to  acknowl- 
edge the  civilities  that  were  shown  her,  and  to 
visit  all  the  neighbors.  Sometimes  she  even 
allowed  herself  to  be  enticed  away,  by  the  en- 
treaties of  friends,  to  appear  at  the  Parliament 
of  Brittany.  This  was  a  great  undertaking, 
requiring  her  to  leave  Les  Rochcrs  and  set 
up  her  establishment  at  Vitre,  at  Vannes,  or  at 
Renncs.  She  was  received  in  these  capitals 
with  an  enthusiasm  of  which  she  finally  be- 
came somewhat  tired ;  she  thought  there  was 
too  much  noise,  too  much  of  a  crush,  too 
many  festivities,  above  all  too  many  dinners, — 
"  dinners  grand  enough  to  breed  a  famine," 
the  details  of  which  she  dared  not  relate  to 
her  daughter  for  fear  of  afflicting  her  with  dys- 


1 88  Madame  de  Sevip-ne. 


'is' 


pepsia.  After  a  few  days,  as  soon  as  she  could 
do  so  with  decency,  she  fled  from  this  social 
whirl  and  returned  to  Les  Rochers,  "  hungry 
for  fasting  and  silence." 

How  could  a  fashionable  woman,  accustomed 
to  live  in  the  midst  of  the  pleasantest  society 
of  Paris,  be  so  much  delighted  with  her  Breton 
castle,  and  remain  there  without  tedium  for 
entire  years?  It  is  natural  that  this  should 
surprise  us,  for  it  surprised  herself.  "  It  is 
strange,"  said  she,  "  how  in  this  wholly  dull 
and  almost  melancholy  life  the  days  slip  by 
without  our  notice."  The  reason  for  this  v/as 
that  she  possessed  a  wonderfully  versatile  char- 
acter, and  just  as  she  adapted  herself  naturally 
to  all  persons,  so  she  could  adjust  herself  to 
all  circumstances.  She  said  of  her  son,  "  He 
catches  the  spirit  of  the  place  where  he  is." 
It  is  plain  that  the  son  inherited  this  quality 
from  his  mother.  The  gayest  of  women  of  the 
world  became,  when  in  the  country,  a  country 
woman.  Solitude  did  not  affright  her;  on 
the  contrary,  she  often  sought  it.  One  day 
she  wrote  to  her  daughter  from  her  retreat  at 
Livry:  "Here  I  am,  my  dear  daughter,  all 
alone.  I  did  not  wish  to  freight  myself  with 
any  one  else's  troubles.  There  is  no  company 
to  tempt  me ;  I  mean  to  boast  of  spending  all 
the  afternoon  in  this  meadow,  conversing  with 


The  Work.  189 

our  cows  and  sheep."  And  when  to  the  pleas- 
ure of  being  alone,  reading,  meditating,  con- 
versing with  the  cows  and  sheep,  she  could 
add  the  delights  of  walking  in  a  flowery  garden 
or  under  great  trees,  and  of  beholding  a  fine 
landscape,  her  contentment  was  such  that  it 
was  not  easy  to  bring  her  back  to  society. 

It  has  been  said  that  Madame  de  Sevigne 
was  one  of  those  seventeenth-century  writers 
who  best  understood  and  most  loved  Nature. 
This  is  a  just  observation,  if  it  be  not  made  to 
imply  too  much.  We  must  first  remark  that 
she  never  makes  those  long  descriptions  of 
scenery  to  which  we  are  habituated.  She  por- 
trays it  with  one  stroke,  and  even  this  stroke 
is  usually  not  peculiar  to  her,  and  discloses 
nothing  very  novel.  Let  us  recall  that  she 
said,  "  I  invent  nothing."  This  is  the  truth ; 
and  whatever  she  docs,  the  stimulus  must 
come  to  her  from  without.  She  began  by 
seeing  Nature  through  the  medium  of  her 
favorite  poets ;  it  was  the  "  Jerusalem  Deliv- 
ered," the  "  Aminta,"  the  "  Pastor  Fido,"  that 
first  quickened  her  admiration  of  Nature. 
Here  also  she  caught  the  trick  of  frequent 
mythological  allusions.  She  will  say  in  the 
most  natural  tone  in  the  world  that  she  "  has 
passed  a  couple  of  hours  with  the  Hama- 
dryads,"  or   that    she   has    taken    an    evening 


1 90  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

walk  "  under  the  beaming  glances  of  Endy- 
mion's  fair  mistress."  That  is  the  way  the 
people  about  her  talked ;  by  her  contempora- 
ries, however,  these  images  were  taken  as  con- 
ventional ;  when  they  depicted  a  sunrise  or  a 
sunset,  when  they  spoke  of  spring  or  winter, 
one  would  think  they  had  never  seen  them  ex- 
cept in  the  poets'  verses.  Madame  de  Sevigne 
looked  at  Nature,  —  then  almost  a  novel  thing 
to  do,  —  and  received  from  it  the  same  im- 
pression, only  more  complete  and  life-like, 
that  the  pictures  of  Tasso,  Guarini,  and  others 
had  conveyed  to  her.  She  repeats  the  terms 
they  used,  she  employs  their  images,  their 
metaphors;  but  with  her  everything  is  quick- 
ened by  her  own  emotions.  We  feel  that 
what  she  says  in  the  words  of  others  she  has 
seen  with  her  own  eyes ;  the  phrase  may  now 
and  then  be  trite,  but  the  feeling  is  always 
sincere.  Herein,  I  repeat,  consists  her  true 
originality.  It  is  amusing  to  note  how  she 
corrects  her  daughter,  who  has  never  looked 
at  the  country  except  from  the  windows  of 
Grignan,  and  who  knows  of  nightingales  only 
by  having  found  them  in  poetical  descriptions  : 
"  Where  do  you  find  that  nightingales  are 
heard  on  the  13th  of  June?  Ah!  they  are 
too  busy  then,  caring  for  their  little  house- 
holds.     They  no  longer  think   of  singing  or 


The  Work.  191 

of  making  love  ;  they  have  more  serious  busi- 
ness." Madame  de  Sevigne  herself  would  not 
have  made  such  a  mistake.  She  took  a  cer- 
tain pride  in  having  a  good  knowledge  of 
country  matters.  When  spriig  begins,  she 
goes  the  rounds  every  day;  she  wishes  to 
see  the  almost  imperceptible  transitions,  the 
delicate  shades  through  which  leaves  pass 
from  red  to  green ;  she  goes  from  tree  to  tree ; 
when  done  with  the  hornbeams,  she  turns  to 
the  beech-trees,  and  then  to  the  oaks ;  the 
inspection  over,  having  observed  and  noted 
all,  she  says  with  amusing  confidence:  "At  a 
pinch,  I  don't  know  but  I  could  make  a  spring 
myself." 

Thus  it  is  that  the  time  slips  softly  by  at 
Les  Rochers.  Each  season  has  its  pleasures 
for  her.  There  is  no  doubt  of  her  delight 
in  hearing  the  nightingale,  the  cuckoo,  and 
the  warbler  heralding  the  spring-time  in  the 
woods ;  but  she  finds  pleasure  too  in  "  those 
beautiful  crystalline  days  of  autumn,  no  longer 
hot  and  yet  not  cold."  And  winter  itself  is 
not  without  its  charms,  when  the  sun  shines. 
in  sharp,  frosty  weather,  "  and  the  trees  are 
adorned  with  pearls  and  crystals."  At  last  the 
time  comes  to  leave  her  solitude ;  she  returns  to 
Paris  without  eagerness,  bringing  to  her  daugh- 
ter the  savings  she  has  made, —  considerable 


192  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

savings,  amounting  on  one  occasion  to  more 
than  sixteen  thousand  livres, —  and  I  fancy 
that  while  others  were  congratulating  her  on 
her  courage,  she  said  to  herself,  deep  down  in 
her  heart,  that  it  was  money  pleasantly  earned. 


V. 

The  charming  chats  filling  the  letters  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne  are  not  confined,  as  is 
often  thought,  to  family  matters.  There  is 
talk  of  many  other  things.  For  twenty-five 
years  she  kept  her  daughter  informed  touch- 
ing everything  said  and  done  at  Paris  and 
Versailles.  Madame  de  Grignan,  away  in 
Provence,  was  very  eager  for  such  news.  "  The 
Mercury"  and  "The  French  Gazette,"  the  semi- 
official newspapers  controlled  by  the  authori- 
ties, took  good  care  not  to  tell  what  people 
most  desired  to  know.  The  papers  under  the 
control  of  the  Abbe  Bigorre  and  others  lifted 
only  one  corner  of  the  veil.  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  writing  solely  for  her  daughter,  did 
not  feel  bound  to  suppress  anything.  She 
told  all  she  knew;  and  as  she  had  great  ac- 
quaintances and  frequented  the  best  houses, 
she  knew  almost  all  that  was  doing  or  about 
to  be  done.     There  was  no  domestic  intrigue, 


The  Work.  193 

no  political  or  military  event,  that  she  did  not 
mention  in  passing.  Therefore,  if  we  intended 
to  follow  her  through  all  she  relates,  we  should 
be  obliged  to  recount  the  whole  history  of  this 
epoch.  This  task  has  been  several  times  per- 
formed, and  it  appears  useless  for  me  to  take 
it  up.  I  only  desire,  in  conclusion,  to  present 
a  few  summary  observations. 

Studying  the  seventeenth  century  in  the  his- 
tories is  one  thing,  and  seeking  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  it  by  reading  contemporary  let- 
ters is  another  and  a  far  different  thing.  The 
two  procedures  give  rise  to  conflicting  impres- 
sions. Historians,  taking  a  bird's-eye  view  of 
their  subject,  portray  its  most  general  character- 
istics; they  bring  out  only  the  prominent  fea- 
tures, and,  sacrificing  all  the  rest,  draw  pictures 
whose  precision  and  simplicity  captivate  our 
minds.  We  finally  get  into  the  habit  of  see- 
ing an  epoch  as  they  have  painted  it,  and  can- 
not imagine  there  was  anything  in  it  besides 
the  qualities  they  specify.  But  when  we  read 
letters  relating  without  alteration  or  selection 
events  as  they  took  place,  the  opinions  of  men 
and  things  we  have  drawn  from  the  historians 
are  greatly  modified.  We  then  perceive  that 
good  and  evil  are  at  all  times  mingled,  and 
even  that  the  proportions  of  the  mixture  vary 
less  than  one  would  think.     Cousin  says  some- 


194  Madame  de  Sevigue. 

where:   "In  a  great   age,  all  is   great."     It  is 
just  the  contrary  that  is  true:   there  is  no  age 
so  great  that  there  is  not  much  Httleness  about 
it ;  and  if  we  undertake  to   study   history  we 
should  expect  this,  so  as  not  to  reckon  without 
our  host.    No  epoch  has  been  more  celebrated, 
more  admired,  than  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  ; 
there    is    danger   lest   the    correspondence    of 
Madame    de    Sevigne    niay   much    abate    the 
warmth  of  our  admiration.     She  is  constantly 
telling  strange  stories  that  compel  us  to  pause 
and  reflect.      When,  in  a  society  represented 
as  so   noble,  so  delicate,  so  regular,  we  meet 
with  so  many  shameful  disorders,  so  many  ill- 
assorted  households,  so  many  persons  whose 
fortunes  are  sustained  only  by  dishonest  ex- 
pedients,—  with  great   lords  buying   and    not 
paying,  promising  and  not  keeping  their  word, 
borrowing  and  never  returning,  kneeling  before 
\  ministers  and  ministers'  mistresses,  cheating  at 
play  like  M.  de  Cessac,  living,  like  Caderousse, 
at  the  expense  of  a  great  lady,  surrendering, 
like  Soubise,  a  wife  to  the  king,  or,  like  Villar- 
ceaux,  a  niece,  or  insisting,  with  Bussy,  "  that 
the  chariest  of  their  honor  should  be  delighted 
when  such  a  good  fortune  befalls  their  family," 
—  it  seems  to  me  we  have  a  right  to  conclude 
that  people   then  were    hardly  our  superiors, 
that  perhaps  in  some  points  we  are  better  than 


The  Work.  195 

they  were,  and  that  in  any  case  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  set  them  up  as  models,  to  the  dispar- 
agement of  our  own  times. 

In  one  respect,  however,  they  were  unlike 
us.  In  those  days  there  were  certain  subjects 
on  which  people  were  generally  agreed,  and 
these  were  precisely  the  subjects  that  now  give 
rise  to  the  greatest  divisions,  —  religion  and 
politics.  Not  that  all  were  pious  then,  —  far 
from  it,  —  but  almost  all  were  believers,  and 
almost  none  contested  the  principle  of  royal 
authority.  To-day,  religious  belief  and  belief 
in  monarchy  are  well-nigh  extinct;  and  there 
are  hardly  any  left  of  those  commonl}'-received 
opinions,  escaped  by  none,  impregnating  all, 
breathed  in  like  the  air,  and  always  found  at 
the  bottom  of  the  heart  on  occasions  of  grave 
need,  despite  all  the  inward  changes  that  ex- 
perience has  wrought.  Is  this  a  good  or  an 
evil?  Should  we  rejoice  at  it  or  regret  it? 
Each  one  will  answer  according  to  his  char- 
acter and  inclinations.  Daring  minds  that  feel 
strong  enough  to  form  their  own  convictions 
are  glad  to  be  delivered  from  prejudices  inter- 
fering with  independence  of  opinion,  glad  to 
have  free  scope.  But  the  rest,  who  form  the 
vast  majority,  who  are  without  such  high  aims, 
and  whose  life  is,  moreover,  taken  up  with 
other  cares,  are  troubled,  uncertain,  ill  at  ease 


1 96  Madame  de  Sevigne, 

when  they  have  to  settle  these  great  problems 
independently;  they  regret  that  they  can  no 
longer  find  the  solutions  all  worked  out,  and 
sadly  repeat  with  Jocelyn :  — 

"  Ah,  why  was  I  born  in  days  stormy  and  dread, 
When  the  pilgrim  of  life  hath  no  rest  for  his  head ; 
When  the  way  disappears ;  when  the  spent  human  mind, 
Groping,  doubting,  still  strives  some  new  pathway  to  find, 
Unable  to  trust  in  the  hopes  of  the  Old 
Or  to  strike  out  a  New  from  its  perishing  mould  !  "  ^ 

This  sort  of  anguish  of  spirit  was  little 
known  in  the  seventeenth  century,  as  Madame 
de  Sevigne's  letters  clearly  show. 

Though  she  was  much  excited  and  highly 
gratified  when  the  king  spoke  to  her,  and 
though  one  day  in  her  youth  she  was  tempted 
to  think  him  a  very  great  prince  because  he 
had  just  danced  with  her,  she  was  not  one  of 
those  who  had  a  superstitious  reverence  for 
him,  and  who  awarded  him  honors  almost  di- 
vine. She  saw  the  folly  of  this  excessive  flat- 
tery, and  occasionally  made  sport  of  it.  "  I 
am  told,"  she  wrote  to  her  daughter,  "  that  the 
Minim  monks  of  your  own  Provence,  in  dedi- 
cating a  thesis  to  the  king,  have  compared  him 
to  God,  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  it  plain 

1  From  the  poem  by  Lamartine,  entitled  "Jocelyn."  La- 
martine  lived  through  all  the  revolutions  and  usurpations  of 
power  from  1790  to  1S69,  —  a  time  of  conflict,  doubt,  and  un- 
settlement  in  matters  spiritual  as  well  as  temporal.  —  Tr. 


The  Work.  I97 

that  God  is  only  a  copy.  .  .  .  Too  much  is 
too  much;  I  should  never  have  dreamed  that 
the  Minims  would  go  to  such  a  length."  A 
former  partisan  of  the  Rebellion  of  the  Fronde, 
Madame  de  Sevigne  always  had  a  degree  of 
independence  and  a  secret  spirit  of  oppo- 
sition. This  enhances  the  value  of  her  tes- 
timony when  she  shows  how  greatly  France 
was  then  enamoured  of  her  king.  "  What  will 
courtiers  not  do  to  please  their  master  ?  With 
what  joyful  devotion  they  rush  toward  ruin  in 
his  service !  Do  they  reckon  health,  pleasure, 
property,  hfe  itself,  of  any  moment  compared 
with  obeying  and  pleasing  him?"  And  else- 
where: "If  such  were  our  feelings  toward 
God,  what  saints  we  should  be."  The  king 
inspired  so  much  respect  that  even  the  people 
he  had  most  cruelly  treated  did  not  ascribe  to 
him  any  responsibility  for  his  harsh  conduct. 
Bussy,  in  the  course  of  his  exile  of  seventeen 
years,  could  not  help  having  occasional  fits 
of  impatience ;  he  vents  his  spleen  on  the 
friends  who  seem  to  have  forgotten  him,  and 
inveighs  against  those  he  thinks  have  taken 
his  place ;  but  his  wrath  never  attacks  the  chief 
and  only  author  of  his  woes.  For  the  king  he 
never  has  anything  but  respect,  submission, 
affection,  passionate  dev^otion.  The  king,  even 
when  he  chastises,  is  the  good  master,  whose 


198  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

name  Bussy  cannot  pronounce  without  tears. 
"  It  is  quite  natural,"  said  he  to  his  cousin,  "  to 
hate  those  who  injure  us ;  and  yet  I  love  the 
king,  desire  his  welfare,  and  pray  to  God  for 
him  with  all  my  heart."  Really  this  was  very 
magnanimous.  Thus  it  was  that  even  the  peo- 
ple who  felt  most  injured  by  this  form  of  gov- 
ernment did  not  dream  of  changing  it.  It 
occurred  to  them  to  desire  the  disgrace  of  a 
favorite,  or  the  fall  of  a  minister  who  as  they 
supposed  had  injured  them ;  but  their  desires 
went  no  further,  and  we  cannot  perceive  that 
they  ever  imagined  any  other  government  for 
France  than  that  under  which  they  lived. 

As  to  religion  the  minds  of  men  were  a  lit- 
tle more  at  variance.  Of  course  unbelievers 
then  existed,  and  even  in  considerable  num- 
bers. "  You  should  know,"  said  Nicole,  "  that 
the  great  heresy  of  the  world  is  neither  Cal- 
vinism nor  Lutheranism;  it  is  Atheism."  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne  speaks  of  some  of  these 
atheists,  Saint-Germain,  Ninon  de  Lenclos,  and 
of  their  endeavors  to  pervert  young  people. 
"  How  dangerous  this  Ninon  is  !  If  you  knew 
how  she  dogmatizes  about  religion  it  would 
make  you  shudder."  But  let  us  not  forget 
that  many  of  these  unbelievers  were  really 
little  more  than  backsliding  believers.  With 
reference  to  that  strange  anecdote  which  shows 


The  Work,  199 

us  Cond6  and  the  Princess  Palatine,  with  Dr. 
Bourdclot,  trying  to  burn  a  piece  of  the  true 
cross,  Sainte-Bcuve  remarks  that  this  youthful 
increduHty,  distrusting  itself  and  yet  attempt- 
ing sacrilege,  is  something  very  far  removed 
from  the  calm  indifference  that  requires  no 
proof  to  make  it  disbelieve.  "  After  all,"  he 
adds,  "  these  free-thinkers  who  prided  them- 
selves so  much  on  burning  the  true  cross  were 
little  in  advance  of  their  age,  —  an  age  in  which 
other  great  minds  could  believe  in  cures  made 
by  the  holy  thorn."  Man}'  of  these  "  liber- 
tines," as  they  were  then  called,  were  so  only 
out  of  bravado,  to  astonish  simple  people  and 
make  themselves  notorious.  At  the  siege  of 
Ldrida,  Bussy,  while  dining  with  some  madcaps 
in  a  church,  had  the  fiddlers  summoned  and  a 
corpse  disinterred,  to  make  it  dance  a  round ; 
yet  in  reality  this  same  Bussy  was  afraid  of 
ghosts,  and  confesses  that  as  soon  as  he  lay 
down  he  tucked  his  head  under  the  coverlet 
"  so  as  to  prevent  his  hearing  anything  that 
could  arouse  his  fears."  When  a  fire  threat- 
ened to  burn  down  his  castle,  he  made  haste 
to  throw  a  scapulary  into  the  flames ;  and  the 
fire  being  at  once  extinguished,  he  could  never 
tell  whether  his  good  fortune  was  due  to  the 
scapulary  or  to  the  wind  which  had  changed 
just  in  time.     It  is  not  a  matter  for  surprise 


200  Madame  de  Sevio-fie. 


£>  ' 


that  the  unbehef  of  these  professed  free-think- 
ers had  not  much  stabiHty.  Most  of  them, 
when  their  sceptical  period  had  passed,  be- 
came pious.  The  rest  were  unwilHng  to  scan- 
dahze  people,  and  when  their  last  moments 
came,  to  do  as  others  did,  they  called  a  priest. 
This  is  what  one  of  their  number,  Guy-Patin, 
calls  dying  more  inajoruin}  On  the  whole, 
this  rare  and  timid  opposition  was  reduced  to 
insignificance  amid  the  great  uniformity  of  be- 
lief, and  ought  not  to  prevent  our  saying  that, 
taken  all  in  all,  this  was  a  Christian  age. 

But  all  were  not  Christians  of  the  same  sort. 
Some  people  were  Christians  only  from  habit, 
tradition,  and  breeding,  without  belief  enough 
to  influence  their  conduct  very  much.  Let  us 
call  to  mind  the  amusing  story  Madame  de 
Sevigne  tells  of  the  "  dear  little  man  "  (the 
Count  de  Fiesque)  and  the  "  Mouse-trap " 
(Madame  de  Lyonne),  who  were  on  the  most 
intimate  terms.  At  a  rendezvous  she  had  as- 
signed him,  after  two  long  hours'  converse  on 
topics  anything  but  religious,  she  abruptly 
said  to  him:  "  Dear  little  man,  I  have  some- 
thing laid  up  against  you." — "Pray,  what  is 
it,  Madame?"  "You  do  not  worship  the  Vir- 
gin; alas  !  you  do  not  worship  the  Virgin  ;  that 

1  "  In  ancestral  fashion,"  or,  "  after  the  manner  of  our 
fathers."  —  Tr. 


The  Work.  201 

gives  me  a  strange  pang."  Madame  de  Se- 
vigne's  piety  was  not  so  accommodating.  She 
doubtless  brought  to  rehgious  matters,  as  to 
all  other  things,  great  freedom  of  thought. 
The  spectacular  piety  of  the  people  of  Pro- 
vence, and  their  processions  of  pilgrims  and 
penitents,  made  her  impatient.  She  speaks 
with  little  respect  of  the  shrines  of  the  good 
Saint  Marceau  and  Saint  Genevieve,  paraded 
through  the  streets  of  Paris  in  the  hope  of 
obtaining  fair  weather  or  rain,  and  bowing 
civilly  when  they  met.  When  she  discussed 
with  Protestants,  she  was  tempted  to  make 
some  very  compromising  concessions.  Her 
friend  La  Mousse,  the  Cartesian,  having  ex- 
plained to  her  certain  of  Origcn's  opinions 
condemned  by  the  Church,  she  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  pronounce  them  very  reasonable.  "You 
will  have  great  trouble  in  fixing  the  notion 
of  eternal  punishment  in  my  head,  unless  the 
king  and  Holy  Scripture  command  it."  At 
risk  of  falling  out  with  all  the  saints,  she  had 
written  above  the  main  altar  of  her  chapel 
these  words:  "  Soli  Deo  honor  et  gloria."^  That 
is  the  way,  she  said,  to  make  no  one  jealous. 
Do  not  conclude  from  this  that  she  was  a 
"  libertine,"  for  we  have  already  seen  that,  on 
the  contrary,  free-thinkers  made  her  shudder. 
1  "  To  God  alone  be  honor  and  glory."  —  Tr. 


202  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

From  her  youth  up,  Port-Royal  had  attracted 
her  by  its  austere  morals  and  the  purity  of  its 
teachings.  When  she  has  just  been  talking 
with  one  of  the  Port-Royal  doctors,  or  reading 
their  works,  she  is  seized  with  such  fits  of 
piety  that  her  cousin  Bussy,  to  whom,  as  to 
others,  she  keeps  preaching,  takes  alarm,  and 
feels  the  need  of  cooling  her  zeal.  "  We  must 
not  take  things  too  much  to  heart,"  he  told 
her;  "that  is  very  unfavorable  to  long  life. 
In  my  opinion  it  is  almost  equivalent  to  being 
damned,  to  think  too  much  upon  the  subject. 
There  is  reason  in  all  things  ;  let  us  live  well 
and  enjoy  ourselves.  Too  great  sensitiveness 
in  matters  of  conscience  makes  heretics.  I 
only  ask  to  get  up  to  Paradise,  and  no  higher." 
But  Bussy  had  no  reason  for  alarm ;  Madame 
de  Sevignc's  piety  was  not  so  formidable  as  he 
supposed ;  it  had  many  intermissions,  and  we 
behold  it  in  her  letters  successively  ceasing  and 
reviving.  It  is  most  often  when  she  is  alone 
at  Livry  or  Les  Rochers,  during  the  winter 
days,  that  she  has,  so  to  say,  regular  con- 
versions to  piety.  She  re-reads  Nicole  and 
Pascal,  recalls  the  many  friends  she  has  lost. 
"Alas!"  she  says,  "how  death  goes  up  and 
down,  seizing  his  prey  on  every  hand !  "  and 
naturally  the  death  of  others  makes  her  think 
of  her  own.     On  the  sun-dial   in  her  garden 


The  Work,  203 

she  had  the  following  device  engraved :  "  Unam 
time."  ^  This  awful  and  uncertain  hour  she 
often  thought  of,  and  the  dread  she  had  of 
it  sometimes  inspired  eloquent  lamentings : 
"  I  find  myself  bound  by  an  awkward  engage- 
ment. Launched  into  life  without  my  consent, 
I  must  leave  it ;  this  overwhelms  me.  And 
how  shall  I  leave  it?  Whither?  By  what  door? 
When  will  it  be?  With  what  preparation?  How 
shall  I  stand  with  God  ?  What  shall  I  have  to 
offer  Him?  What  can  I  hope  for?  Am  I  worthy 
of  Paradise?  Do  I  deserve  hell?  What  alter- 
natives !  What  perplexity  !  .  .  .  I  had  better 
have  died  in  the  arms  of  my  nurse  !  "  And 
then  she  promised  herself  to  live  more  se- 
riously, and  to  be  better  prepared  for  that 
dread  hour;  she  formed  good  resolutions  for 
the  future ;  but  very  soon  "  a  breath  of  air, 
a  ray  of  sunlight  dispelled  all  these  nightly 
thoughts."  She  saw  her  friends  again;  she 
took  part  in  their  lively  and  scandalous  con- 
versation ;  she  laughed  like  the  rest,  and  more 
than  the  rest,  at  the  malicious  anecdotes 
she  heard  related,  and  could  not  resist  the 
pleasure  of  repeating  them  with  admirable 
humor.  She  was  vexed  with  herself,  scolded 
herself,  and  did  not  correct  herself  "  I  am 
neither  on  God's  side  nor  the  Devil's,"  she  said  ; 

1  "  Fear  one  hour."  —  Tr. 


204  Madame  de  Scvigne, 

'\/  "such  a  condition  troubles  me,  and  yet,  be- 
tween you  and  me,  I  think  it  the  most  natural 
condition  in  the  world."  It  was  so  natural  to 
her  that,  sooth  to  say,  she  never  got  out  of 
it.  Despite  all  her  good  resolutions,  she  spent 
her  life  in  such  alternations  of  piety  and  back- 
sliding up  to  the  time  of  the  illness  that  car- 
ried her  off.  Then,  how^ever,  she  was  firm  and 
resolute ;  her  son-in-law,  who  witnessed  her  last 
moments,  tell  us  that  "  she  reaped  the  fruits 
of  the  good  reading  for  which  her  taste  had 
been  so  eager,  and  looked  death  in  the  face 
with  wondrous  firmness  and  submission,"  This 
was,  indeed,  the  usual  way  of  dying  at  that 
period.  Many  intelligent  people  thought,  with 
Madame  de  Rambures,  that "  it  is  tiresome  to 
live  in  God's  grace,"  but  they  all  desired  to 
have  that  grace  at  death. 

Dying  at  the  age  of  seventy,  to  the  last 
Madame  de  Sevigne  bore  the  burden  of  her 
years  lightly.  Madame  de  Scudery,  Bussy's 
friend,  who  had  seen  her  several  years  before, 
was  surprised  to  find  her  still  beautiful.  She 
always  seemed  young  to  her  friends.  We 
have  her  last  letters,  and  there  is  nothing  in 
them  to  suggest  her  age;  they  are  as  graceful, 
as  witty,  as  piquant  and  full  of  life,  as  the  rest. 
In  the  one  she  wrote  a  fortnight  before  her 
death,  she  deplores  the  loss  of  the  young  Mar- 


The  Work,  205 

quis  de  Blanchefort,  son  of  the  Marshal  de 
Cr^quy,  with  a  touching  affection  which  proves 
that,  despite  her  years,  her  heart  had  remained 
without  a  wrinkle.  This  was  a  rare  good  for- 
tune, and  she  must  have  known  better  than 
any  one  else  how  to  value  it.  Never,  surely, 
was  her  stubborn  optimism  better  vindicated ; 
and  then,  most  of  all,  she  had  reason  to  say 
that  she  was  contented  with  her  lot.  To  live 
on  without  growing  old,  to  feel  alive  and 
whole  to  the  last,  to  preserve  in  maturity  what 
is  best  in  youth,  vigor  of  mind  and  freshness 
of  feeling,  then,  when  the  end  has  come,  to 
find  in  the  depths  of  the  soul  the  beliefs  of 
early  years,  and  to  fall  softly  asleep  with  a 
sure  hope, —  is  not  this,  for  beings  who  live 
like  us  amid  darkness  and  uncertainty,  an 
enviable   lot? 


THE  END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

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